


Waveson

by VillaKulla



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Depiction of near drowning, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, Romance, Scottish Folklore, Selkie AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-11-18 12:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 41,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18120533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VillaKulla/pseuds/VillaKulla
Summary: /wev sən/1. Debris on the waves after a shipwreck2. A son of the wavesHaunted by the war, Goodnight Robicheaux moves to a remote fishing village in the north of Scotland, right at the tail end of WWII. He takes a fishing cabin by the sea, his only neighbours the waves and a curious seal. Goodnight is simply after some peace and solitude, and isn’t expecting much in the way of human company. But even he doesn’t know just how right he’ll be about that.Selkie AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In River Grit there were a few scenes where I compared Billy to a seal.
> 
> Ever since then, this fic was pretty much bound to happen.

 

 

_Northern Scotland,  1945_

 

 

The door opened with a muffled scrape against the frame, the light from outside pouring into the room. It was a pale grey day and the ocean breeze picked up some of the dust on the floor, sending it spiralling into Goodnight Robicheaux’s face.

 

Goodnight blinked and screwed his eyes shut, opening them again to take in the room properly. He stepped inside, dropping his well-worn rucksack to the floor. It was a simple place, spartan but comfortable enough. The cabin was snugly built, pale wooden beams pressed flush together. It wasn’t that large, but the single-room ground floor made it seem spacious. Kitchen, dining area, and living room all arranged throughout the space, and Goodnight could spy stairs in the corner leading up to a bedroom loft. It felt open and airy, it got a lot of light, and through the window over the kitchen sink Goodnight could make out the rippling grey of the North Atlantic.

 

It was chilly for the summer, and Goodnight noted the woodstove in the living room with relief. He wasn’t sure how warm the place would feel in the winter, but certainly he’d slept in worse. Anything beat barracks. In spite of the brief spiral of dust when he’d disturbed the door, it was clean and calm, and seemed to have everything Goodnight needed. And what he needed most right now was quiet. 

 

Goodnight shoved his rucksack aside with his toe, its buckles scraping against the floorboards. He walked over to the corner where he saw a broom standing upright in a tangle of fishing rods. He set to work sweeping up the place, doing his best to ignore the discomfort in his left shoulder. War’s over, he reminded himself, repeating his commanding officer’s last words to him before they’d parted ways at the docks the week prior. Goodnight willed himself to believe it here and now.

 

He glanced out the wide kitchen window at the ocean outside. His former brothers-in-arms would be halfway across it by now, on their way back home to America. It was home for Goodnight too, but he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of returning. He was aware he was alone in this. The American soldiers crowding the docks were slowly returning from all corners of Europe, their faces turned upwards with longing towards the tall ships that could bring them home after years away, the air almost tangible with the collective anticipation of knowing that once they finished this leg of the journey and crossed the ocean, they would finally be _safe_.

 

But safe was the last thing Goodnight felt. Going home meant an audience, and an audience meant having to pretend he was someone he wasn’t anymore, meant having to hold himself together when Goodnight felt like he was being steadily pulled apart at his seams already.

 

He didn’t feel anywhere near fit to reenter society. He’d seen what happens to ‘society’ when pulled into a war, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to civilian life without seeing the dark underbelly of human nature always roiling and pulsing below like a suffocating, cancerous growth. He needed to be away. He needed to breathe.

 

So rather than board the last ship in Glasgow, along with all the thousands of other hollow-cheeked soldiers, Goodnight had stopped in his tracks on the gangplank, oblivious to the protesting surge of bodies behind him, trying to get around. He just couldn’t. He’d turned to his CO, hugged him hard with a muffled promise to write, and then turned around against the tide of people, pushing and dodging his way through the thick stream, and swinging himself over the rail of the gangplank when he was over the deck again, and walking purposefully away down the docks.

 

He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t even know what his plan was. But he did know that the sense of relief he felt at walking back through the docks, boots splashing through the puddles, was practically physical.

 

A plan had come to him not a day later in the pub where he’d spent the night. A notice pinned to the board had attracted his attention. It read ‘Fishing Cabin For Rent’, and went on to list a modest monthly rate and the name of a town Goodnight had never heard of. Goodnight unpinned it, careful not to slosh his glass of beer onto it, and had taken it to the innkeeper behind the bar. A few telephone inquiries proved that the cottage was still available for rent, and Goodnight was welcome to go have a look at it if he were willing to make the journey up on his own dime. And before Goodnight knew it, he was making his way up north, the green and grey landscape whistling past his train window. From the northernmost stop he’d gotten a seat on a bumpy, rattling bus that took him even further up the coast, until finally he had arrived here, at the cottage.

 

A knock on the open door startled Goodnight out of his thoughts, and he turned to see what had to be the owner standing there.

 

“Goodnight…Robicheaux?” the man asked, thick Scottish accent rolling dubiously through the syllables of Goodnight’s name.

 

“Mr. Baran,” Goodnight said, wiping a dusty hand on his trousers before holding it out to the older man in the doorway. He was a tall man with a shock of white hair that almost brushed the doorframe. He was incredibly thin, but still seemed very strong and fit. The latter was confirmed when he held out a wrinkled hand and shook Goodnight’s hand with a firm, calloused grip.

 

“Call me Magnus,” he said in a gravelly voice. “See you found the key alright.”

 

“I – yes. Thank you,” Goodnight said, feeling uncharacteristically flustered, but he was suddenly very aware of the reality of what he was doing. Seeing a notice for lodgings in a pub and deciding to take a house in a foreign country had felt like a natural, transitory stepping stone. But it was still one hell of a step.

 

“Any trouble finding the place?” asked Magnus, looking Goodnight up and down, face revealing nothing as he eyed this foreigner who was considering his property, clearly sizing him up. Goodnight didn’t particularly care what he saw.

 

“None,” he said, leaning the broom against the wooden kitchen table. “Chester gave pretty clear instructions for the train. Your directions did the rest.”

 

“Aye, Chester,” Magnus said, his face becoming slightly more animated. “Did me a favour there. Asked him to put up the notice in his pub. He was from here, you know.”

 

“Was he?”

 

“Mmm. Got himself a good business going in the city. And when this place became free I asked him to put the word out where more people could see it. No good advertising to people already living here. If there’s one thing people from ‘round these parts don’t need, it’s another fishing shack.”

 

Goodnight smiled, but it disappeared when the man changed tacks abruptly, asking him, “War?”

 

“Yes,” Goodnight said shortly, not caring to elaborate. But Magnus didn’t seem to require further detail, simply nodding at the statement.

 

“Well, would you like to, I mean, well…” Goodnight faltered. It felt awkward to extend an invitation to a man to enter his own property. But Magnus didn’t seem to find anything uncomfortable about it and he took his cap and windbreaker off, hanging them up on the coatrack by the door, and proceeded to show Goodnight around the place. He opened cupboards for him, showed him the water tank and how to use the sink and stove, and Goodnight would have offered the man a cup of tea but it seemed like that was half on its way to happening anyways.

 

The man must have decided Goodnight was the right sort to rent to, whatever that meant, and as the tea steeped he showed Goodnight around the rest of the place, which didn’t take long. And then Magnus brought up the matter of pay, to which Goodnight fished out an envelope containing six months rent in advance. If Magnus thought it was unusual that Goodnight had access to large sums that could be wired quickly, he merely raised his bushy white eyebrows as he scrawled out a receipt.

 

And then the tea was ready and they took their chipped mugs and sat down in a couple of the armchairs by the empty fire grate. Goodnight asked the man some more questions about the actual village. “About one mair mile” it was, down the road and around the bend. The village’s only business that mattered was the fishing trade, and when just about every youth was old enough he was put out onto a boat. Although during the war, more and more of the girls had taken over while the young men of the village signed up. Not all of them had returned home though.

 

At that point there was a lull in the conversation, and as both had finished their tea, Goodnight took the mugs over to the sink, rising them out. When he turned around, Magnus had paused in collecting in his coat as he watched Goodnight.

 

“You’ve got Arnold to thank for finally getting in the plumbing out here,” the man said, nodding towards the sink.

 

“Arnold?” Goodnight asked nonplussed.

 

“My son,” Magnus said, twisting his cap in his hands as he looked around the cabin. “This was his place. He didn’t much fancy the quiet life, so he signed up when the chance came. Battle of Normandy, so the telegram said.”

 

Goodnight glanced at the old man in surprise, then understanding, then guilt. He might have walked away from the war with barely a shred of himself left, but he had still walked away. He was about to offer his condolences but Magnus cleared his throat and gestured to the room.

 

“Figured someone should get some use out of it, if it’s just going to stand empty anyways,” he said briskly, but his eyes were soft, almost wistful as he glanced around the space like he was trying to drink it in. So Goodnight said:

 

“Please drop by any time.”

 

Magnus made a gruff sound, but the line of his thin shoulders had eased, and he tipped his hat at Goodnight before heading out the door and starting the mile long walk back to the village. Goodnight stepped outside and watched him disappear, finally turning back to get a proper look at the outside of the house.

 

It was almost perfectly square, and with a high pointed roof that contained the bedroom loft. The house was covered entirely with cedar shingles that might have once been brown, but the salt air had long since turned the little house a stormy battered grey from top to bottom. It looked weathered but strong, with smudged windows on all sides that allowed a panoramic view of the highlands, and the ocean beyond. It would be a good place to live, Goodnight thought as he contemplated his new home. And now that he knew a little more about its old owner, he was seeing it rather differently now.

 

It was vain in the extreme to assume that new places existed only for you, as though they had just been waiting for you to show up all along. Goodnight had been unable to help such thoughts as his train carried him further and further away from the larger towns down south. But now that he had a better idea of who had lived here before, he felt a bit more duty-bound towards the place, rather than seeing it just as a place in which he could recuperate and ultimately leave once he felt like it. Goodnight felt like he could barely look after himself at the moment, but he made a mental note to at least make an effort in looking after the place itself.

 

He turned back around on the front porch and stepped off, boots crunching over the gravel. The house was on a rise, the sea a quick walk down the hill. His eyes went to the path that led down to the water, feet following soon after. The wind came strong and Goodnight pulled his sweater tighter around himself but tipped his head back to take in its salty kick.

 

He reached the bottom of the path, stepped over gravelly rock, and found himself looking out over a secluded cove. It was high tide, and a small fishing boat had been pulled up to the top of the pebbly beach, securely fastened to an iron ring in a rock overgrown with barnacles. A small dock stretched out over the water, and Goodnight walked down its creaky length, looking around the cove.

 

It was a small inlet, really just a rocky dent in the coastline, but it felt private with the black rocks arcing around on either side, creating a bay with smooth, easily rippling waves that lapped at the pebbly shore. Goodnight could see the white of the larger waves breaking out past the entrance of the cove.

 

He bent down impulsively to dip a hand in the water. It was bitingly cold, and Goodnight’s hand tingled when he withdrew it. He wrapped his arms around himself again, hand buried snugly in his sweater, and gazed out at the cove, lulled by the whisper of water breaking over the shore, feeling more peaceful than he had in quite some time.

 

A movement out of the corner of his eye caused Goodnight to tense briefly, holding himself still. The reflex of what to do when you feel you’re being watched was a familiar one to him during the war. But he didn’t feel like there was a threat near and he gradually eased up, moving his head around the water to see what had gotten his attention.

 

There was a small plopping sound and Goodnight spied a ripple out in the water, rings spreading from where something had disappeared as though it had ducked down under the water.

 

Probably a fish had jumped. It certainly hadn’t been a U-boat, Goodnight thought with a wry smile.

 

The sun was nearing the tops of the cliffs, the sky turning a duskier blue, reminding Goodnight that he was getting chilly. He turned to walk back up to the house, but looked curiously back out at the water. But there was nothing to be seen, the rings already beginning to fade.

 

And putting his hands in his pockets he turned away to walk up the hill and back towards the house.

 

 

*

 

 

Waking up every morning by the sea was so calm it was almost disconcerting. The sense of quiet and space hung around the little grey cottage like a veil, wrapping Goodnight in a misty stillness. Goodnight often woke up early, heart racing from dreams he couldn’t remember and didn’t want to. He would lay there with a thrumming in his chest, listening to the quiet, half-expecting the crash of mortar and the screech of shells to pierce through any second. But then the veil would slowly begin to lift, and the whisper of waves would begin to lap through as they brushed against the cliffs, followed by the occasional cry of a gull.

 

He would stay wrapped up in his nest of blankets until the sounds calmed him, grounded him, and then he would get up and put his clothes on and begin his day. His schedule was hardly strenuous. It was strange to go from the strictly regimented routine of the army to this quiet freedom he had here. Goodnight kept himself busy with small chores each day, but was always amazed that he could _choose_ to do them, and that the choices he made didn’t mean the difference between life or death, his or anyone else’s.

 

Sometimes he took the mile-long walk into town to place various orders. During the day the small fishing village felt almost like a ghost town, with the majority of its occupants out on their fishing boats. Goodnight would often spy them far off, dotting the waves as they made the rounds and hauled in their catch.  He would walk through the abandoned streets, sometimes able to hear the wives of fishermen inside their colourful little houses as they chattered and went about their work. Sometimes they would greet him as they took out the washing, and Goodnight would reply with as little detail as he could politely get away with. The townspeople were probably curious about him, but it manifested itself in a polite, rather indifferent sort of way. Goodnight was relieved when he was released and could drift over to the town’s small library. It was hardly an affluent affair, many of the shelves as bare as the tables. But it calmed Goodnight to pace among them, eyeing the titles, and seeing which books had been cast off from family collections to find themselves all the way up here in the outermost fronds of the Hebrides.

 

And then the air would fill with shouts and laughter and curses as the fishermen began to pull in, filling the docks with their loud voices and authoritative instructions to others on their boats. Goodnight usually took that opportunity to quietly head back home, sending a nod to Magnus if he happened to spy his white head among the cluster on the docks. Goodnight would walk back to his little cottage over the briar and bramble, breathing in the fresh earthiness of the heather with the salt of the ocean following him at his side.

 

He mostly stayed around the house though. It was peace and quiet he had been after and he was determined to hang onto it, happy to relegate the bulk of his optional chores to housework. It was still very early fall and it was pleasant to be outside, reinforcing the grey shingles of the house as he steadily made his way around the perimeter. In a brush of enthusiasm he’d ordered some blue paint and when it arrived he set to work on repainting the front door and the windowpanes to match. There ended up being so much paint left over that he decided to also repaint the small rowboat he’d seen chained to the rocks down in the cove.

 

The cove and its beach were Goodnight’s favourite spots in the whole place. The inlet was small, private, the dock was peaceful, and the view of the sea beyond was mesmerizing as Goodnight watched the waves from outside steadily roll into the cove. At low tide Goodnight could scramble over the rocks, admiring the tidal pools, each one a clear, glittering, jewel box: bright kelp, squat snails determinedly latched onto the rocks, clusters of deep blue mussels, and scuttling crabs. Goodnight enjoyed picking his way over the slippery rocks, peering into the pools, dipping his feet into their freezing water, and letting them warm up again in the sunshine as he left damp footprints on the stone.

 

Even at high tide there was still a strip of beach where Goodnight could park himself and get work done while he watched the waves. He was slowly learning the tides, when they were highest at night, and at their lowest in the early afternoon. He could have just asked the fishermen for the exact times when he was in town, but was fairly certain he’d be laughed out of the local pub. And besides, he was pleased with himself for having mostly figured out the patterns on his own.

 

The cove was private and engrossing, and Goodnight was rather enjoying his newfound solitude as he did his chores down there. Although one day he discovered he wasn’t completely alone.

 

He’d been sitting on the beach, the rowboat flipped over the sand beside him, while Goodnight scrubbed and sanded the hull. He was so engrossed he almost didn’t notice he was being watched. He turned to reach for a rag when he saw, out in the water, the smooth head of a seal.

 

Goodnight looked up interestedly. He hadn’t seen too many of them around, although down in the town he could sometimes spy them lying on the rocks, their sleek, powerful bodies spread out under the sun.

 

This one was quite close, bobbing in the bay, head arched up out of the water. It was a smooth, dark, dappled grey colour with a silver streak on its head. It was close enough that Goodnight could make out long whiskers and large eyes. Goodnight wasn’t positive but he thought seals were supposed to have black eyes, like a doll’s. This one’s seemed to be a deep brown, although he supposed it could have been a trick of the light. One thing was certain though: it was definitely watching Goodnight. Goodnight’s lip twitched and he paused in reaching for the rag by his feet.

 

“Hello,” he said to it. The seal immediately dove under the water, so quick Goodnight would have missed it if he hadn’t been staring straight at it. Goodnight smiled and went back to his work. He glanced back a few times but it seemed to have left.

 

Later that evening Magnus stopped by which he hadn’t done yet. Goodnight wondered why, but it turned out that the old man was simply delivering a couple salmon.

 

“Some extra from today’s catch,” he said in that gruff way of his.

 

“Oh, well thank you very much,” Goodnight said surprised. “That was kind of you,” he added, meaning it.

 

He wiped his hands on his pants before taking the foil wrapped fish, asking Magnus if he’d stay and have one of them himself.

 

“No, ‘fraid I can’t, no no really. I have to mend some nets by tomorrow. Just wanted to see how you’re settling in.”

 

“Can’t complain at all,” Goodnight said, going to the cupboard to find an extra mug for tea, even if Magnus wouldn’t stay to eat.

 

“They haven’t been gutted yet, by the way. You know how to clean a fish?” Magnus asked doubtfully.

 

“Sure thing, sure thing,” Goodnight said breezily. “No problem at all.”

 

“Front door looks good,” Magnus said approvingly. “How’s the boat coming along?”

 

“Not bad,” said Goodnight. “Going to add some trim once it’s finished.”

 

“You know there’s an outboard motor somewhere in the shed?” Magnus told Goodnight who did not. “Might take some fixing up, not sure how good you are with those contraptions, but could come in handy if you want to take it out fishing.”

 

Magnus took a sip of the tea Goodnight had handed him, adding: “Although I’d be careful just outside the mouth of the cove. Get some nasty currents ‘round there when the tides change.”

 

“Duly noted,” said Goodnight glancing out at the sea, pitch black this time in the evening. “Been meaning to try my hand at some fishing soon.”

 

Magnus’ head shot up incredulously.

 

“You mean to tell me you’ve never gone fishing?”

 

“Never,” Goodnight said, lips twitching at his expression. “Picked some mussels this morning though. Little bastards put up a good fight but I got ‘em in the end all right. I’ll make a fisherman yet.”

 

“Aye,” Magnus said slowly, eyeing Goodnight in disbelief, like he wasn’t sure if Goodnight was pulling his leg, eventually deciding he was. He downed the last of his tea saying: “Well let me know if you need a hand getting started.”

 

“I will indeed,” said Goodnight with a chuckle, accompanying him back to the door as Magnus prepared to leave. “Oh say, you get a lot of seals around these parts?”

 

“Not planning on fishing one of those too are ye?” Magnus said drily as he put on his cap.

 

“Nah, just saw one out in the water today,” Goodnight said.

 

“Well they’re around,” said Magnus. “But I wouldn't get too close. They’re not aggressive, mind you, but they might feel threatened if you approach them.”

 

“Sure thing,” said Goodnight, not bothering to argue that it was the seal who had approached _him_ , because Magnus probably thought he was crazy enough as it was.

 

“And besides,” Magnus said, knotting his scarf. “Some say it’s bad luck to harm a seal. You’ll have the more modern folk telling you a different story these days, but among the older folk, the fishing superstitions run deep.”

 

“And which kind are you?” Goodnight asked jokingly.

 

“Well now I’d have to think about that,” Magnus said seriously, actually pausing as though pretending to think it over, and Goodnight laughed out loud.

 

“Thanks again for the fish.”

 

After Magnus had gone, there was a brief moment where Goodnight felt lonely. For the most part he’d been reveling in this pocket of peace and avoiding responsibilities, socially or otherwise. It was a blessed relief to have this little limbo by the sea.

 

But the brief company had been nice. Goodnight made a mental note to actually stop in the village pub eventually, once he was feeling up to the attention.

 

But first things first, he thought, taking out a cutting board, and determinedly setting one of the fish onto it. It was time to figure out how to clean a fish.

 

 

*

 

 

The next morning Goodnight set out for the cove, pail in one hand, fishing rod in the other.  It was early yet when he reached the dock, the sun only just beginning to tickle the water with rippling golden fingers. He set down the pail on the dock and began to bait his hook. He’d saved the entrails from the fish he’d gutted last night, and couldn’t help being pleased with his thriftiness. Goodnight hadn’t grown up an outdoorsman in any sense of the word, but he liked to think he’d have been a good one, if given half the chance.

 

He settled back on the dock, legs dangling over the water, watching the sun come up over the gentle tide, feeling perfectly content.

 

To his surprise it wasn’t much longer before he had a bite. He reeled it in, feeling a burst of amazement when he pulled a large brown fish from the water, the fish wriggling and flashing in the sun. He unhooked it and dropped it into the empty bucket beside him, covering it with a lid so the fish couldn’t thrash its way out. The sounds of it slapping against the walls of the pail were unpleasant, and he decided next time he would bring something to stun the creature with.

 

But the sounds soon stopped, and Goodnight wasn’t feeling as discomfited about catching his food as he thought he might be, so he settled back in to his fishing, and soon he had hooked two more of the same brown fish whose name he didn’t know.

 

Just then a ripple in the water caught his eye. It was coming towards the dock, a small bump just below the surface creating a raised meniscus of water, leaving a smoothly rippling wake behind it.

 

Goodnight watched it approach, and just before it reached the dock it broke the through the surface, and up popped the head of a seal.

 

It was the same one as yesterday, Goodnight was sure of it. It had the same streak of silver on its head, and the same dark brown eyes. It was watching Goodnight inquisitively and Goodnight broke into a delighted grin at seeing one of them up close.

 

“Hullo there,” Goodnight said, putting his fishing rod carefully aside, next to the bucket. The seal tracked Goodnight’s hand and was looking at the bucket of fish, for all the world as though it knew what was inside.

 

“Had your breakfast yet?” Goodnight asked, lips twitching. He reached into the bucket taking hold of a thick, slippery fish.

 

“Bon appetit,” he said, tossing it into the water where it landed with an inelegant plop, and the seal immediately ducked underwater to retrieve it. It surfaced with the fish triumphantly in its jaws, tossing its head back and eating it in two bites, ducking back down to retrieve a fallen piece.

 

When it surfaced again it swam closer to the dock, looking eagerly at the bucket. Goodnight laughed.

 

“Hungry fella, are you?”

 

He reached once more into the bucket, grabbing hold of another fish, wondering for a moment what the real fishermen down in the village would say if they could see him wasting perfectly good fish on a seal. Well, what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, and Goodnight was enjoying himself.

 

“Go long,” he said, hurling the fish out into the water as far as he could, watching in delight as the seal shot off after it like a silver bullet. When it reached the spot the fish had landed it curved in one fluid moment, and was gliding back to the dock, eating the fish along the way. It rose up again, bobbing in the water, head arched as it looked up at Goodnight.

 

“Well you’re a handsome one,” Goodnight said admiringly as he ran his eyes over the smooth, dark grey head, the velvety nose, long silver whiskers, and the wide dark eyes which were examining Goodnight in turn with complete calm, as though it was Goodnight who had wandered into its own territory. Which in a way, Goodnight supposed, he had.

 

The seal turned its head to the bucket of fish again and Goodnight spread his hands saying, “Sorry pal, none left.” And for a moment the seal looked so humanly skeptical that Goodnight burst out laughing.

 

“Not getting anything past you, is there? I suppose you can smell it. But what am I supposed to eat today, hmm?”

 

The seal flicked its front flippers expectantly.

 

“Oh fine, but if anyone finds out about this I’ll be a laughingstock,” Goodnight said, and reached for the last fish. He tossed it off the dock and the seal reared up, snatching it in midair.

 

“I hope you’re happy,” Goodnight said amused, and the seal must have been because it was eating the fish with an expression that looked practically smug. It rolled over a few times in what Goodnight could only assume was satisfaction at its easily obtained meal.

 

“Yes, yes, you’re welcome,” Goodnight said. The seal did another turn in the water, flicked its fins, and was swimmingly leisurely away towards the wide mouth of the cove. Goodnight watched it go until it dipped under and disappeared.

 

“Well how about that?” Goodnight said to no one, a smile still glimmering at the corner of his mouth, completely elated by the encounter. He’d scarcely seen any ocean wildlife in his life at all, apart from the gators back home. And those were hardly as engaging.

 

He wondered if seals tended to stick to one place. He’d seen this one twice now, but had no idea if they were territorial or not. Maybe this one was using the small bay as a food source and was hanging around until the fish ran out.

 

But since Goodnight was currently the one out of fish, he baited his hook once more and settled back in, resolving to keep his catch to himself, beseeching seals or no.

 

 

*

 

 

The next few days were fairly busy as Goodnight was committed to finishing his work on the boat. The painting was done, and he was now working on the outboard motor he’d found in the shed, taking it apart for a thorough cleaning. He wanted to make sure there was no buildup of rust or corrosion, but he needed to be able to put the engine back together himself afterwards. So he’d spent a couple days labeling each part and sketching out a diagram as best he could in one of his journals, hoping he’d be able to rely on his notes when the time came to put it back together again.

 

Now he had all the pieces disassembled and spread out on an old blanket on the dock. He set to work cleaning them, enjoying that he could polish them under the sunshine while looking at the water. And it wasn’t long before a ripple appeared, a dark shape came through the water, and the head of the seal was popping up to look expectantly at Goodnight.

 

“Hello again. Here for your breakfast?” Goodnight asked smiling. “Sorry pal, you cleaned me out. Come back tomorrow.”

 

The seal cocked its head, wet whiskers quivering as it looked at what was in Goodnight’s hand.

 

“Just a propeller,” Goodnight said, holding it out towards the seal. The seal edged closer to sniff delicately at the metal. Ultimately uninterested, it slipped backwards into the water but rather than swim away entirely it just circled around the small bay on its back, like it was simply enjoying the calm water and the bright sky above.

 

It was a beautiful day. Not that Goodnight didn’t enjoy the light, grey days where it felt like the cool salty air was floating around him like sheer, translucent silk that billowed with every breath of wind off the ocean. There was something almost invigorating about the sparse absence of colour in his surroundings, the bareness of the scenery both fresh and calming.

 

But today the sky was perfectly blue and crisp, it was warm under the sunshine, and the water was as clear as a mirror, the seal still skimming slowly through the light waves.

 

A pair of terns wheeled overhead, white wings fluttering. They were looking for any shadows in the water that might promise a fish. Goodnight continued to polish the propeller blade, fingers working the oil into the fins while he watched them flutter stark white against the sky.

 

One suddenly dropped down in a lightning fast nosedive towards the water, wings held steady as it plummeted down, splashing into the water. It came up, shaking itself off, empty-beaked.  It flapped back overhead and the pair continued to circle.

 

Goodnight’s hands faltered. The tern’s dive had reminded him of something but he couldn’t put his finger on what. It had unsettled him though and he looked down at his grease-covered fingers with a frown. And then he realized what the bird had reminded him of: a fighter aircraft right before it went into a dive.

 

Goodnight stilled his hands over the propeller and he bit his lip. He forced himself not to go down that road, to send his mind into the same kind of tailspin as those awful planes whose engines you could hear buzzing before you ever knew where they were. He hadn’t been airforce himself, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t intimately acquainted with all the shapes and colours of the aircraft on each side: angular German Messerschmitts with yellow trim like angry wasps; British Spitfires with splashes on their wings that looked like targets; squat, shiny Mustangs that zipped through the sky with a loud drone that could be heard all around.

 

But all aircraft looked the same when shot out of the sky, all in that same horrible hurtling towards the ground like their strings were cut, that sudden plummet towards the earth, spiraling, screaming, smoke billowing from their engines. Sometimes you would see a chute and sometimes you wouldn’t, but you would always see the plane slap into the ground with an awful instant crumpling from tail to nose, all in the space of seconds.

 

Goodnight shuddered and tried to focus on his breathing again, but his hands were trembling too much. He set down the propeller, squeezing his hands together, trying to still the tremors. He wished he could just ignore it all, all the panic that was still stored inside of him. He was sure he could have gone about in a semblance of normalcy, successfully pretending until it became a habit. But even if he could convince his mind he was normal, his body would always betray him like this.

 

Drawing his knees up to his chest, he hunched over as though to protect his thudding heart from more stimulation. He stayed in that position trying to control his breathing, and to his amazement he managed to turn the rabitting inside his chest into a dull, muted thud.

 

Goodnight let out a slow breath. He was dimly aware that all he was doing was suppressing his panic rather than solving it, and the more he pushed down his nerves into a tight coil, the harder they would spring back up again when released. However, he also felt that after everything his nerves had been through, he’d earned the right to do with them what he liked.

 

The seal was back in front of him again, fins drifting slowly in the water, dark eyes curious. Goodnight managed a tight smile, the way he would if it were a human looking at his state in concern. He reached for the propeller again, but his hand still had a lingering tremor, and as he fumbled with it it bounced from his hands to the dock, dropping right into the water.

 

Goodnight swore as he leaned over the dock, trying to spy it at the bottom. It wouldn’t be too deep below the dock, and Goodnight could swim, but despite the warmth of the day, the water would still be bone-cold, and he didn’t much want to go in all over…

 

The seal ducked down after it, and Goodnight uselessly called out, “It’s not food.”

 

But to his utter astonishment the seal swam back up with the propeller between its teeth, reared up easily and dropped the propeller back onto the dock with a plunk, sinking back down into the water where it bobbed steadily.

 

Goodnight was absolutely astounded. He knew the animals were supposed to be smart, but this just beat all.

 

Goodnight looked at the seal in disbelief. It was paddling about normally, spinning lazily in circles, engaged in perfectly seal-like behavior again. Maybe its retrieval of the equipment had been a simple reflex. Or maybe it really had just thought it was food.

 

“Next time you come back, I’ll have the biggest fish saved just for you,” Goodnight told it in a daze.

 

The seal just flicked its tail and spun leisurely off.

 

That afternoon Goodnight made the walk into the village to pick up some more supplies. The butcher had been elbow deep in sausage makings and had told Goodnight to come back in fifteen minutes, so he wandered the streets while waiting for his order to be prepared. The fishing town was as quiet as ever during the middle of the day, and Goodnight found himself ducking into the library.

 

He nodded at Mrs. Stearns the elderly librarian who barely returned his nod, absorbed as she was in the card catalogue. Goodnight left her to it and made his way to the shelves at the back where the nonfiction was, pulling out the heavy encyclopedia marked ‘S’. He cracked it open on one of the wide empty tables, settling in as he flipped through the pages until he reached ‘Seal’.

 

He read about the ‘semiaquatic marine mammals’ of the Pinniped family and examined the pictures. He was pretty sure ‘his’ seal was a grey seal, which was one of the smaller breeds. It also said that the males tended to be darker in colour, so now he knew the seal that hung around his place was probably a boy. Most species preferred the colder waters of the Northern and Southern hemispheres.

 

He moved past the physical descriptions and onto behavior patterns. _“Among the most intelligent and playful of marine animals,”_ seals also showed evidence of having long-term memories, displayed knowledge of rhythm, and could be trained to perform a wide variety of tasks.

 

No surprise there, thought Goodnight about the seal with the wide smart eyes. He hadn’t realized the animals were quite so keen, although the number of them that got put into circuses should have been some kind of tipoff. He hated to think of his seal being plucked from bracing cold, wild waters and put into a hot, dusty tent in a city, that sleek dark coat covered up with a ridiculous sequined costume.

 

Not much chance of someone coming along to capture the seals up here though, isolated as they were. He wondered if all the seals around here were so intelligent, or if his cove had attracted a particularly alert one. The ones he saw from the village mostly just sat on the rocks in the distance, lazing around, occasionally shifting their bulk into a more comfortable position. Not like the silky dark streak of muscle that slipped through Goodnight’s cove as quick and quiet as the shadows of the waves.

 

Goodnight would have liked to flip to the next section called ‘Seals in mythology and folklore’ and read about selkies and superstitions, but glancing at the clock he knew the butcher would be ready by now. Encyclopedias couldn’t be checked out, so Goodnight carefully marked his page and returned it to the shelves, nodding again at Mrs. Stearns on his way out.

 

That night when Goodnight fell asleep he dreamed of deep, dark waters, the hum of waves far overhead, a sea as dark as night, and one star that streaked through the water on silver fins.

 

 

*

 

 

The motor of Goodnight’s boat was finally back together, and if it looked a little less streamlined than before, Goodnight was still reasonably sure he’d done it properly. But just as a precaution he decided to test it out on the beach outside, rather than inside the highly flammable cottage. Simply a precaution.

 

He lugged it down to the beach, flipping the brightly painted boat over and attaching the motor. He pushed the whole thing down to the very edge of the tide so that it could be nearer the water if need be. Again, simply a precaution.

 

He was so busy struggling with the motor he almost didn’t notice he was being watched. And sure enough when he turned around, there was the seal sitting in the shallows, not too far from Goodnight, but far enough to be swimming away in one dive.

 

“Hello there,” Goodnight called out to it cheerfully. “I didn’t forget.”

 

He reached to the side, unwrapping the small bundle he’d brought down with him, taking out a fat, silvery fish.

 

“Thanks for the propeller,” Goodnight said, throwing the fish out into the water. The seal leaned forward, snatching it up in its jaws. Goodnight watched, pleased with the immediate reception of his gift, taking out another from the brown paper. He knew these fish would make a whole dinner for a small family, and there were plenty of wild ones the seal could hunt itself, but Goodnight still couldn’t bring himself to see it as a waste. He threw the second fish out and the seal swam forward to eat it. It was the last one, but rather than swim away, to Goodnight’s surprise the seal came closer to the edge of the tide, settling itself on the damp, dark sand, looking at what Goodnight was up to. Entranced, Goodnight stared openly at it.

 

The seal wasn’t an ‘it’ though…a him, most likely, judging by the dark coat, as Goodnight now knew was typical of males. This was the first time Goodnight had seen him out of the water, and he could now see he wasn’t all one solid colour, but rather a dark, dappled pattern of spots that were so subtle Goodnight could only make them out in the sun. Goodnight estimated him at about four feet which put the animal on the smaller side for its kind. But Goodnight could plainly see the speed and strength in the animal’s muscle, all of it supported by wide, elegant fins that were splayed on the sand. Goodnight hadn’t realized those fins had claws, but he could see them now, digging into the sand, creating tiny punctures into which the tide rushed and bubbled. The seal seemed calm but was clearly poised to spring away at a moment’s notice. Goodnight didn’t want him to.

 

The seal was looking at the waxy brown paper that had contained the fish. Goodnight followed his gaze and laughed.

 

“You know, I really don’t know how you expect me to keep catching fish when a certain predator keeps lurking around the bay, scaring all the fish off.”

 

The seal turned at the sound of Goodnight’s voice, watching Goodnight, nose twitching inquiringly.

 

“Yes, you. You’re the predator. What do you mean by scaring away all my potential catch?”

 

The seal looked at the paper bag again with somewhat narrowed eyes, and Goodnight huffed.

 

“Well fine, those might have been from the fishmonger’s, but even so, the principle still stands.”

 

The seal’s whiskers twitched and he looked at the motor which Goodnight had finally managed to affix to the boat.

 

“Ah yes, you’re just in time for the show!” said Goodnight brightly as he strode over, leaving a wide circle around the seal who was so close Goodnight could have brushed its silvery skin with the tips of his fingers if he tried, but he didn’t try. He made some final adjustments to the motor.

 

“This took me days. D’you know I never learned much about car engines growing up? Learned to drive them pretty young, younger than they’d probably advise, but never had any reason to go inside of them, no sir, not even to change the oil.”

 

The seal sat watching with its neck in a sleek arc. It was hard to believe it wasn’t listening.

 

“But turns out they’re not that hard to put together, as it so happens. It’s meticulous work, I’ll grant you that, takes some patience, but technical skill? Pshaw, there was nothing to it. You might want to stand back though, or…swim back, or whatever you’d call it, just maybe move back a little.”

 

Goodnight waved his hand and the seal looked slowly around the bay as though asking ‘Who, me?’ and actually shifted back in the sand a few centimeters.

 

“Alright, let’s see about this…” Goodnight said in concentration, reaching for the pull cord. He braced himself on the edge of the boat and give the cord an almighty yank, revving it towards himself. He heard a rumble, saw a spark, there was a large _bang_ , and he was knocked clean off his feet, and back into the surf.

 

Ears ringing, he propped himself up on his elbows, water rushing in around him, soaking his back and his pants. He was barely a foot from the seal who didn’t seem to have moved at all. Goodnight watched as the smoke poured from the engine which was making a few last feeble sputters. Another small wave came in, splashing over his head, and Goodnight couldn’t help the bubble of mirth rising in him. He pointed a finger at the seal.

 

“Not one word out of you.”

 

The reflection of the water sparkled in the seal’s dark eyes, and for just a second, the seal almost looked like he was trying not to laugh too.

 

 

*

 

 

The days passed, each one feeling calmer and more normal than the last, and Goodnight felt like he might be up for going into town and facing the pub. He wasn’t a wallflower by nature, and several times he’d have liked to join in when he saw the fisherman traipsing in from their days on the waves, full of stories and calling out orders to the bartender before they’d barely walked in the door. But Goodnight knew that going in meant questions he just didn’t want to get into. Someone was bound to eventually ask him what had brought him to this village, why he was spending so long there, why he didn’t want to go back home after the war…questions Goodnight didn’t even fully know the answer to yet himself, and could barely begin to articulate without getting worked up.

 

But one day, midafternoon, he headed into the village right as the boats were coming in. Goodnight hung back until they’d taken care of their catch, and then lifted a hand at Magnus who greeted him easily, gesturing for Goodnight to join them while they went into the pub.

 

The conversation and drink both flowed easily, and Goodnight wasn’t asked about the war, not once. He should have remembered that people were generally good about that. Especially when all of it was still so fresh. And - he realized with a twist of shame - he wasn’t even the only one up here who’d been affected by it all. He already knew about Magnus’ son, the son who would never be coming back to the cottage Goodnight was renting now. And for all he knew, the same thing might have happened to other families too, small though the village was. He didn’t know which other families were also suffering losses, but he wasn’t about to find out by asking.

 

The evening wore on and Goodnight’s stomach loosened gradually, the beer light and smooth going down his throat, the hum of thick, warm accents surrounding him like a bath. He felt so thoroughly dipped into the rich atmosphere that the thin, tinny crackle of the radio was almost jarring.

 

_“…bring you our latest update following the end of the war, as we look at the continuing tensions at home and abroad…”_

 

The signal was distant, the voice was the King’s English, thin and detached, and yet to Goodnight it stung through the clamour of the pub like a shot.

 

_“…starvation is on the rise in many countries, the Soviet Union reporting close to twenty million non-combat deaths …”_

 

Goodnight took a small sip of his drink, but the ale felt like it was turning to lead in his throat.

 

_“…high counts of starvation in Germany as well, meanwhile Germany still finds itself at the mercy of occupying Soviet troops. Reports of brutalities against the German people continue to pour in…”_

 

Every crackling word couldn’t have been crisper.

 

_“…meanwhile in Japan, the death toll continues to climb, the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki now estimated to have claimed at least one-hundred and twenty thousand lives combined, and there are still reports of more deaths resulting from radiation…”_

 

Goodnight set his drink down. It was rattling too much to hold to his lips.

 

_“…a number of allied leaders feel that war between the United States and Soviet Union is likely, the Under-Secretary of state going so far as to call another war between the two nations ‘inevitable’…”_

 

“Fools.”

 

Goodnight didn’t realize he’d spoken out loud until the heads of the fishermen at his table looked up at him in question, all except Magnus who was gazing into his drink. The panic had rushed into Goodnight so suddenly that Goodnight could feel nothing else. He wanted to deflect, but was suddenly sure that if he opened his mouth again it would only be in a sob.

 

“Night,” he finally managed to say hoarsely, putting a bill down on the old table and getting to his feet, blindly trying to reach the door, and he was trying to stay calm and look normal as he edged his way around all the bodies in the place, but it felt like he was suffocating, and he needed to get to the door _now_ –

 

He stumbled out into the night air gasping for breath. He steadied himself against the wall of the pub, some part of him dimly grateful he looked like just another person who’d had too much to drink. He took off at once, and it was only once he reached the coastal footpath that he covered his mouth with his hands, trying to quell the rising sobs, because he wouldn’t feel safe to let them out until he was back at the house alone.

 

He walked the mile back to his little cottage but rather than go inside he found himself stumbling down to the beach and into the seclusion of the bay. He reached the end of the dock and sank to his knees, clutching one of the posts of the dock. And only then did he let the rising sob out, all the panic and grief wrenched from his chest. He let out a few more painful, guttural sobs, body shaking as they worked their way out from the depths of him. And then he just pressed his hands to his face and wept.

 

It would never be over. The world around him was too big, too ruined, and war hadn’t changed a thing, it had only made it worse. Goodnight could run as far away as he wanted, could find some remote spot in the world and never go home to face the fallout, but the fact remained that the world was still burning down around him. And he’d never escape it.

 

So he clutched the post harder and cried, cried for who he used to be, for what he’d seen, and for just how very damaged he felt.

 

He squeezed his hands to his eyes, shoulders still wracked with quiet sobs, and two hot tears escaped his hands, dropping into the water. They spread into tiny ripples like two eyes, as watery and wavering as his. He sniffed and a third tear fell into the ocean, distorting the silvery pattern in the water that was rippling under the moonlight.

 

Goodnight stared hopelessly into the inky black water, watching as a fourth tear slipped off his nose and into the water, then a fifth. The ocean was as dark as the sky above and Goodnight had never felt more insignificant or pathetic.

 

The rings from his tears were still spreading and the water seemed to be rippling more, opaque as black velvet and lighter than silk. And then with a soft, slippery whisper a head surfaced and Goodnight was looking into the eyes of the seal.

 

Goodnight and the animal stared at each other, the seal’s eyes as dark and bottomless as the sea it lived in. It floated there, staring quietly at Goodnight who couldn’t bear to tear his eyes away from it for fear that he might just drift away, pulled by the tides of his own grief. Goodnight felt like he was anchored to the seal’s eyes and he didn’t dare blink, even as a sixth tear rolled into the water. A faint mist was rolling in, pale as spun silk. There seemed to be a glittering silver shimmer to the water, which Goodnight put down to the unshed tears in his eyes. The seal moved closer to the dock. Goodnight reached a hand out, pale in the moonlight, hardly breathing as the seal came closer, its breath tickling Goodnight’s fingers…

 

And then Goodnight finally let himself breathe properly, like something had loosened inside him. He pulled back his hand and wiped away the last tear that was threatening to fell, letting his hand drop to his knee with a sigh. He looked ruefully at the seal who was still watching him uncertainly from where it floated in the night water.

 

“Take it from me, friend,” Goodnight said to it with a weary smile. “You’re better off in there.”

 

He straightened up, his knees aching, and lifted a hand to the seal. He turned away to go back to the house, not looking behind him to see if the seal was still watching him.

 

 

*

 

 

The next day was a bad one. Goodnight had gone to bed with his head pounding from his crying jag, and he woke up with it feeling worse, his whole body aching. The weather outside seemed to be doing its best to match, the winds having picked up, shaking the cottage so much it felt like the shingles might fly right off. A light, constant rain drummed on the roof of the cottage, and the sky stayed dark all day, full of thick roiling clouds that seemed to be rumbling as they rolled across the sky.

 

Goodnight stayed in, the pulsating black of his mood growing larger, untouched as it was by the fresh air outside. He didn’t bother to fix any breakfast, couldn’t bring himself to look at a book, didn’t want to do anything but sit and stew and think his ever-spiralling thoughts. Some caused rage to streak through him, others making him collapse in watery grief.  He felt as bad as he ever had since being discharged. He couldn’t bring himself to snap out of it, couldn’t bring himself to do anything but sit in a chair holding his knees against his chest, swallowing the occasional burning mouthful of whiskey, and shaking as much as the house in the wind.

 

Finally he couldn’t stand sitting there anymore and he got up and went outside, staggering a little, mostly from the wind. He clutched his sweater around himself and went down to the beach, drawn by some natural kinetic energy that seemed to be crackling through the dark sky which was getting more stormy with every passing minute.

 

He reached the cove, the water rougher and higher than he’d seen it before. It hardly looked like the same place. The waves kept getting lifted and slammed against the rocky sides of the coves where the water frothed and bubbled before being sucked back in a roaring rush, ready to be flung forward again. It was terrifying and mesmerizing and Goodnight found himself walking towards the dock to get closer.

 

The rain was picking up, droplets that fell harder and faster until suddenly it was coming down in a sheet that had Goodnight soaked in minutes. He tilted his head up, letting the rain come down, imagining each cold drop splicing its way into his skull, washing away all the fog and poison and panic that his mind stewed in what felt like all the time.

 

His foot slipped on the wet wood of the dock and he threw out his arms to steady himself. The waves continued to crash against the dock in high sprays. Goodnight couldn’t tell if the water flicking at his face was coming from the sky or the ocean, he could barely see anything except the dark glistening waves that crashed over the dock.

 

He wanted to be in them, he wanted to submerge himself in all that power, in all that pure physical force. The sharp, cool rain against his face was addictive, and he wanted to feel it all over, for it to consume him, bathe him, wash away the blackness in him until he disappeared.

 

He knelt down on the edge of the dock, gasping in something too wild and desperate to be called delight, letting the spray of the ocean slap into his face. His knuckles tightened, white and wet around the edge of the dock. A sound that might have been a laugh rose up through him only to be carried away by the force of the wind that seemed to swoop down into the bay, ringing out and shrieking against the rocks.

 

Goodnight took a tight grip of the rail, staring out with wide eyes at the raging ocean, adrenaline pounding, arching into the spray of the waves that came close but never touched him. He wanted to feel them, wanted them to block out everything else as they pulsed around him. Adjusting his handle on the dock’s post he leaned forward as far as he could go, reaching out towards the water which flooded over his outstretched hand, surrounding it in wet, invigorating, intoxicating cold.

 

And then a wave came, bigger than the others, crashing over Goodnight’s body. He lost his balance and his fingers spasmed over the rail as the spray fell around him. And then quicker than he could catch his breath, another wave came in from the side, pounding into him and lifting him off his feet. His fingers got one last touch of wet, splintering wood, and then Goodnight was swept off the dock, falling right into the water.

 

It was cold, so much colder than Goodnight could have imagined. It was like having a million knives stabbing into him from all sides and he gasped at the shock of it, his mind suddenly icy clear, truly aware of his surroundings. He forced himself to stretch out towards the dock when another wave came pounding over him.

 

There was a plug as his ears went under. He couldn’t see anything, didn’t know which way was up, and he struggled to come up against anything, air, the dock, the rocky bottom, anything to orient himself, and suddenly felt himself dragged back in the current faster than he could swim.

 

His head broke the surface and he took in a huge breath, spitting out salt water, looking around wildly. He tried to tread water but it was like working against a thousand invisible arms all trying to pull him in different directions.  

 

Goodnight was scared now, really scared, and he couldn’t make out a thing. He squinted through the rain hoping to see the rocks that surrounded the cove, a light on in his cabin, anything. But another wave came along that knocked him sideways, spinning him around again. He desperately tried to swim in the direction the waves were going, but they seemed to be going in every direction, and he kept getting sucked back by the force of the current.

 

His hand scraped against something rough: rock. Goodnight wildly tried to reach out and grasp it but was sent toppling forward by the force of the water, scraping up against the cliffs. He scrabbled for a handhold on the wet, ragged rocks, but before he could find one he was pulled back out again, being swept back at top speed in a thick, roaring rush.

 

He knew he was in open sea now, outside the cove. He didn’t know how he knew, but the ocean felt endless around him, huge and dark, nothing around him but the towering shrieking sea. He was treading water weakly, trying to move in a pathetic breaststroke back to where he thought the rocks might be, but his arms were going numb, the cold leaching into his limbs making them heavy and dull, weighing him down like anchors.

 

He stared ahead at the dark waves and saw a blackness that seemed more still than the black of the waves around him. His heart surged. It had to be the cliffs he thought weakly, trying to swim towards them, using all his strength. He was nearing them but the waves were worse against the jagged rocks and he couldn’t get close.

 

And then a wave picked him up at a dizzying speed and flung him against the rocks, and Goodnight felt his head crack against them.

 

Ringing. There was ringing and dizziness in his ears, and while the sea still raged around him, Goodnight was only dimly aware of it as he sunk back into the water, limbs frigid and dazed. There were stars in front of his eyes, or maybe they were in the sky, maybe he was looking up, allowed a last glimpse of his world before the water sucked him back down.  He gasped for breath as his heavy body sunk slowly down, water starting to spill into his mouth.

 

He just hoped it would be quick.

 

He bumped against something. More rock he thought, trying to grab it with limp fingers but it brushed out of the way, too smooth to find purchase. It felt unfair that he was so close and yet so far away from safety. He could barely think, his mind numbed from the cold and slowly slipping into black.

 

Something knocked into his chest, pulling him away from the rocks. No, he thought dazed, nearly unconscious, reaching back out, but whatever it was, current, wave, it was dragging him away. Goodnight had no idea what was happening but he realized he was floating, and his arms instinctively reached out to wrap around whatever he knocked against. A buoy? Goodnight summoned the last of his strength and he tightened his arms around whatever it was, closing his eyes.

 

Goodnight was pulled steadily through the riptide, waves crashing around his head like they were punishing him for not going along with them. Then his feet dragged along sandy bottom, and Goodnight’s knees would have collapsed in relief if he hadn’t still been holding on with a death grip. Something hot was trickling down his forehead, thicker than water, hot against his eye. Blood. He was shaking and shuddering, totally limp but for his arms which were still locked in a vise grip, the last instinct of a drowning man. He was slowly losing consciousness and still couldn’t bring himself to let go.

 

He felt his handhold shift, and for one panicky moment Goodnight thought it had disappeared until he felt something strong take hold of him, pulling him ashore, dragging him far up and laying him against the sand. His vision was fuzzy and his head was spinning, but the sand was sure against his back, so still and firm it was practically alien. There was a hard, sharp pressure on his chest, and something closed over his mouth. The pressure on his chest resumed and Goodnight found himself coughing up a lungful of burning water. Every cough caused his head to practically split apart in pain. His vision whited out as his head fell back against the wet sand.

 

The last thing he could make out through the haze was a pair of dark eyes.  And then everything went black.

  


 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  


 

 

The first thing Goodnight noticed when he woke up was that he was warm. Completely warm. He was wrapped snugly in dry blankets that were wound so tight he could barely move, not that he wanted to. A lantern flickered by his head. Goodnight watched the flame waver for a few minutes, flickering gently, to and fro, lulling him back to sleep.

 

When he woke up again he was more alert, this time noticing the dull ache in his head. He wrestled with the blankets for several minutes trying to extract his hand from their nest, and managed to reach up, gingerly touching his forehead. The lump was impressively prominent, and as he pressed the pads of his fingers to it he remembered everything:

 

The dark, chaotic, tumultuous cold, being tossed and pulled in every direction, as helpless as a ragdoll against the raging whirlpool of the sea. He’d never in his life felt more powerless than being flung and pulled in every which way by the turbulent, stormy ocean, not even when he was in the chaos of war. That had nothing on the total, powerful, surging indifference of the sea.

 

Well. He’d wanted to feel consumed by something greater than himself, some kind of outside energy that could temper the storm he had inside him, and so he had. Although he was amazed to still be alive.

 

He managed to get to his feet rather blearily, walking in unsteady steps across the floor of his bedroom loft. He got dressed in thick, warm clothes. And as he gradually became more aware of his surroundings, he realized there was a faint clattering downstairs.

 

He took the stairs slowly, with a bit of vertigo. It felt like he was still being rocked by phantom waves. He got downstairs, into the main room of the cottage, looked towards the kitchen and stopped.

  

There was a man at the kitchen counter. He was making coffee and he had his back turned. He was also completely naked.

 

Goodnight didn’t think he’d made a sound but the stranger half-turned.

 

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” he said over his shoulder, a long strand of black hair in front of his eyes.

 

Goodnight had no idea what to say to that, or of anything happening to him right now. But the stranger didn’t seem to expect an answer, reaching up into one of Goodnight’s cupboards to take down some mugs. Goodnight could tell he was extremely muscular. He was also still extremely naked.

 

The stranger turned and Goodnight was about to say something, maybe ‘Who are you’, or ‘where did you come from’ or ‘could you put some clothes on please’. But he suddenly found himself looking right into the stranger’s eyes and he felt the room tilt.

 

“It’s you.”

 

The stranger looked back calmly, still standing there without a hint of self-consciousness despite his nakedness, long dark hair streaming over his shoulders in salty tangles and framing a face that was Asian in appearance. But Goodnight didn’t notice any of it, could only look into those dark eyes.

 

“You’re the seal,” Goodnight said in a rush, too disoriented to fully realize how ridiculous he sounded.

 

But the stranger merely picked up one of the mugs, blowing on it, and handed it to Goodnight.

 

“Not a seal,” he said simply, voice thick and rich with a lilt Goodnight couldn’t place. And as Goodnight reached out for the mug the man added:

 

“Selkie.”

 

Goodnight’s hand paused while taking the mug. And then he just took the mug rather dazedly.

 

“Guess I hit my head harder than I thought,” was all he muttered, taking a sip. He wasn’t sure but he thought the man – selkie – man’s lips quirked.

 

“How are your ribs?” the man asked suddenly. His voice was like the spray of surf over rock.

 

“My ribs?” Goodnight asked in confusion, touching his hand to his left side, immediately wincing. He pulled up his sweaters and saw a scraped, raw mess all along his side. He hadn’t realized until now how much it hurt, adrenaline and the cold of the water having numbed him before.

 

“They looked pretty bad last night,” the man said, sipping his coffee. He paused and looked into his mug with interest, taking another appreciative sip. Goodnight saw his own clothes from yesterday hanging in front of the woodstove, still battered and damp.

 

The stranger followed his gaze.

 

“I had to cut them off you,” he said. “You had hypothermia.”

 

“Suppose it could have been much worse,” Goodnight said letting his sweaters drop, and then looked directly at the man. “You saved me, didn’t you? Pulled me out?”

 

The man nodded, still sipping his coffee.

 

“Thank you,” Goodnight said still reeling. He was staring, he knew, but he felt completely out of his depth here. It wasn’t every morning he woke up after a near-death experience to find a naked man in his kitchen who had saved his life and also called himself a selkie.

 

“Look, do you have a name or something?” Goodnight asked, needing some kind of return to normalcy here.

 

The man tilted his head as though thinking about it.

 

“Billy, I suppose,” he said finally.

 

“You suppose?” Goodnight asked.

 

“I don’t think you could pronounce my real name,” he said matter-of-factly.

 

“Well what is it?”

 

The man raised an eyebrow at Goodnight. And then he opened his mouth and released a high-pitched series of clicks and whistles, so unearthly the cabin seemed transformed to a grotto under the sea.

 

Goodnight just stared. And then asked weakly:

 

“Maybe if you spelled it?”

 

The man gave Goodnight a sharp grin.

 

“Billy will do,” he said.

 

“It’s going to have to,” Goodnight muttered in a stupor, and saw the man smile more.

 

“So you really were…that seal that’s been hanging around?” Goodnight asked after a pause.

 

“A selkie,” Billy corrected him again. And then his forehead creased.

 

“You really didn’t know, did you?” he said, seeming hesitant for the first time since taking command of Goodnight’s kitchen.

 

“Did I know that the animal I was talking to could secretly turn into a human?” Goodnight said. “I assure you I did not.”

 

“But you…” Billy faltered. He looked into his coffee cup with a frown. He straightened up.

 

“You kept talking to me,” he said, voice uncertain. Goodnight sensed it wasn’t what he wanted to say.

 

Goodnight shrugged, feeling rather sheepish that his unwitnessed palavering with ocean wildlife hadn’t gone quite as unwitnessed as he’d thought. “I suppose the company wasn’t bad.”

 

Billy looked somewhat skeptical, but he seemed more at ease. Goodnight cleared his throat and happened to glance out the window, heart nearly stopping when he saw Magnus coming up the footpath.

 

“Oh lord. Um, look, do you have any clothes or something?” he asked Billy quickly. “My neighbour is coming.”

 

“And he would mind if I wasn’t wearing clothes?”

 

“I would imagine so.”

 

“And you don’t?” Billy asked, his voice mild.

 

“What? No, I just –” Goodnight harboured a suspicion that Billy was teasing him, but he was too flustered to pay it much mind. “Look, go on upstairs and grab anything of mine that fits. And uh, maybe keep the selkie thing on the backburner for now?”

 

Billy set his mug down eloquently on the table and made his way across the room and up the stairs as calmly as if he owned the place. And he’d just disappeared into the loft when Magnus knocked on the door. Goodnight brushed his hair over his bruised forehead as best he could and went to let him in.

 

“Morning,” Magnus said. “Came to see if the place was still standing after last night.”

 

“What? Oh yeah, she’s fine,” Goodnight said, still frazzled.

 

“And what about you?” Magnus said, squinting at him. “Jesus, that’s a nasty looking bump.”

 

“Wind was so strong it blew me smack into the door when I came in,” Goodnight said, the lie rolling fluidly off his tongue.

 

“Yeah she was a bad one alright,” Magnus said. “Don’t suppose you need me to tell you to keep clear of the water or cliffs when a storm like that blows up.”

 

“Thanks but it was a quiet night,” Goodnight said. He suddenly felt rather touched at the way his landlord had taken it upon himself to gruffly look after him. “Have some coffee? There should still be some left.”

 

Magnus accepted and Goodnight let him in, pouring him a mug. He saw Magnus notice the extra cup on the table, and just then Billy came back down the stairs, clothed this time, and wearing a pair of Goodnight’s trousers and his loosest shirt. He eyed Magnus warily. Magnus seemed just as surprised.

 

“This is my friend who’s visiting,” Goodnight jumped in hastily. “Magnus meet Billy, Billy meet Magnus. He owns this place.”

 

Magnus was still looking at Billy guardedly, and Goodnight couldn’t tell what was going through his head, whether it drawing conclusions at Billy coming down from the house’s only bedroom, or speculating on Billy’s looks and wondering which side of the war he’d been on, or if Magnus could sense something about him that wasn’t human at all. Either way, the tension in the little room had increased tenfold.

 

“Billy and I worked together in the war, Magnus,” Goodnight said, thinking quickly. “He saved my life.”

 

Only one of those was true, but it was enough for Magnus who seemed to relax, and extended his hand. “Well then pleased to meet you, Billy…?”

 

“Rocks,” Goodnight jumped in before Billy could chirp or click out some seal last name. His mind had gone directly to the rocks of the cove below, and he hoped Billy wouldn’t object.

 

“And does Billy ever speak?” Magnus asked dryly.

 

“He does,” Goodnight protested, and then immediately shut his mouth. Both Magnus and Billy seemed amused as they shook.

 

“You just arrive?” Magnus asked. “How’d you even get here with that storm going on?”

 

Billy glanced over at Goodnight, and his eyes had a smile in them.

 

“I swam.”

 

Goodnight did his best not to have a coronary.

 

Magnus just chuckled.

 

“Well I just came to check on you, Goodnight. You know the shed door is hanging off its hinges, by the way? Could give you a hand now if you want.”

 

“Sure, thanks,” Goodnight said, setting his coffee mug down.

 

“I can go if you’re too-” Billy started to say but Goodnight cut him off.

 

“I’ll go. You stay here,” Goodnight said, not wanting to release Billy on anyone from the town without supervision at this present moment. Magnus went to get his boots on and Goodnight turned to Billy.

 

“You’ll still be here...right?” he asked quietly. This had been a ridiculous morning, and Goodnight still didn’t know what to make of it or Billy, but he did know that it certainly felt unfinished.

 

“Yes,” Billy said, calming the place in Goodnight that had tensed up. “But you really shouldn’t be walking around, you know.”

 

“It’ll just be for a minute,” Goodnight said. They stood eyeing each other until Goodnight saw Magnus open the door. “Be right back.”

 

Billy nodded. But he suddenly looked taken aback.

 

“I still don’t know your name,” Billy said in a low voice, looking almost startled by it.

 

“Oh, forgive me,” Goodnight said, rattled. “The name’s Goodnight.”

 

Billy barely blinked.

 

“And you think my name is strange,” was all he said. Goodnight wanted to pay more attention to the tugging at the corner of the man’s mouth, but Magnus was stepping outside and Goodnight followed, with one last look at Billy standing in his kitchen.

 

Goodnight went outside into the faint drizzle, his mind spinning at everything that had just happened to him. He tried to come up with some sort of cover story for how he and Billy could have met during the war in case Magnus asked. But Magnus didn’t ask and most of the five minutes of repairing the door were spent in silence. Goodnight’s head was still reeling as he walked back to the house. He glanced over at the sea, slate grey, and rolling normally towards the shore, the sounds of waves breaking gently against the cliffs. Not at all the rough chaos it had been the night before. He shuddered, not from fear now, but at his own foolishness.

 

He walked back in the door, half-convinced Billy had been a hallucination. But there he was, waiting at the door and making scolding noises.

 

“I told you you shouldn’t have gone out,” Billy said, and Goodnight realized he was swaying where he stood. “Go to bed and don’t argue.”

 

Goodnight accepted being bossed around in his own house by an effective stranger who claimed to be a mythological creature who could transform between seal and human, following his instructions with what he felt was good grace. Or maybe just fatigue. But he let Billy nudge him towards the stairs and then watch as he made sure Goodnight climbed them. Goodnight fell asleep the second he lay down.

 

When he woke up it was pitch black and Goodnight felt much less groggy. Refreshed even. He reached out to check the watch he left on his bedside table. It was past midnight. So Goodnight had slept almost fourteen hours.

 

The morning came flooding back to him, and he got up warily and made his way downstairs with a better idea of what to expect this time. And there was Billy, setting the kitchen table. Something coming from the stove smelled good.

 

“Fish soup,” Billy said, answering Goodnight’s unasked question. “I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up, but figured it would keep better than cooking them.”

 

Goodnight was staring at him. Billy went to turn down a burner on the stove that was on simmer and started ladling the soup into two bowls while Goodnight tracked his every movement. And then he blurted out:

 

“If you really were that seal, then what did I drop off the dock that you got back for me?”

 

Billy didn’t even flinch at the accusatory tone. He just set the bowls calmly on the table.

 

“A propeller.”

 

“Oh god,” Goodnight almost whispered, finally having it all hit him properly. “Oh god, oh god…”

 

Billy lit a lantern in the middle of the table, the light glancing off the shadowy corners of the cottage. He pulled out the chairs, angling one towards Goodnight.

 

“Eat first. Questions later.”

 

Goodnight sat down with a thud, and Billy pushed one of the spoons towards him, taking one for himself, not waiting for Goodnight to start eating. He was so absorbed in his meal that it didn’t leave any room for conversation, so Goodnight just picked up his spoon.

 

They ate in silence, and Goodnight couldn’t stop his mind from racing. Now that he was rested and fed and not still-reeling from nearly drowning, he could better appreciate what a claim this was. He’d heard of selkies of course, those creatures found in Scottish and Irish folklore. Beings that appeared as seals in the water and shed their skins to come on land. Tales spoke of fishermen who stole the skins of beautiful selkies, forcing them to stay with them as their human companions until the selkie inevitably found their skin again. When they put it back on the call of the sea would be so strong the selkie had no choice but to dive back into the waves, returning to their true home.

 

And now this man across from Goodnight claimed to be one of those selkies, which launched a thousand other questions in Goodnight’s mind. His first lucid reaction to all of them was doubt, but…hadn’t he always thought there was something unusually smart about the seal who not only remembered him but actually seemed to visit him? He remembered dropping the propeller into the ocean and having the seal dive down to retrieve it. It was just the two of them in that secluded cove, no one else around for miles. How else would Billy know about that?

 

They had seconds, Goodnight barely noticing how good the soup was. And then Goodnight wiped his lips and collected their bowls, taking down two glasses and a bottle of whisky.

 

“Drink?” he asked Billy.

 

“Water,” Billy answered. Goodnight paused but filled one of the glasses with water, adding a tiny splash to his own before pouring in some whiskey. He brought them back to the table and sat across from Billy again. He didn’t know where to start, or what to ask that didn’t make both of them feel ridiculous. But the flame of the lantern wavered across Billy’s face and for a moment the man looked so unearthly that Goodnight found his voice again.

 

“You’re a selkie?” he asked again.

 

“Yes,” Billy said.

 

Goodnight nodded, and took a sip of his whisky. “What did you do with your skin?”

 

He’d just been asking as it was the first thing to come to mind. But Billy’s mouth went flat and his eyes glittered in the lamplight.

 

“It’s hidden and you won’t find it so don’t ask,” he said sharply.

 

“Okay,” Goodnight said in surprise. There was a tense pause over the table, Billy taking a tight sip of water, and Goodnight immediately realized that if the tales were true, and selkies often had their skins stolen by those who wished to trap them on land, then of course it would be a sore subject.

 

“Apologies,” he muttered into the silence. “I have no interest in knowing where you keep your skin, believe me.”

 

Billy looked at him, still tense, but he wasn’t glaring.

 

“I merely wondered…how does a selkie turn into a human?” Goodnight asked.

 

Billy fingered the rim of his water glass, looking into it. Goodnight didn’t know if this was another sensitive question, but Billy didn’t seem to be bordering on another snarl.

 

“There are different ways,” he said finally. “They say the touch of steel against a selkie’s skin can do it.”

 

They went quiet and Goodnight suppressed a shiver at the ways in which people could try that.

 

“They also say if someone cries seven tears into the sea they can summon a selkie. That’s what I thought you were doing,” Billy said looking into Goodnight’s eyes. “That night you were on the dock.”

 

Goodnight’s stomach clenched. He remembered that night, feeling like he didn’t have a hope left in the world, crying out his last hopes into the water. But he had held one back in.

 

“Well. I wasn’t,” Goodnight said, voice hoarser than he’d expected.

 

“I see,” Billy said as he gazed at Goodnight plainly. Goodnight couldn’t read his face, if it was curious, sympathetic…anything.

 

“Last night…” Billy started. His voice was soft when he continued. “Were you trying to kill yourself?”

 

Goodnight started at the bluntness of the question. His throat constricted uncomfortably.

 

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. He really didn’t. He was inclined to say ‘no’, but he knew that putting himself in a situation so dangerous still showed a distinct lack of self-preservation. He might not have been consciously trying to, but some part of him that wanted to be consumed by the storm clearly hadn’t cared if he came out of it or not.

 

“I’m not going to do it again, if that’s what you’re asking,” Goodnight mumbled, pretty sure that was also true. It wasn’t that he felt ‘better’, whatever that word meant. But the experience had certainly been a cold hard slap back into reality.

 

“Where did you even come from last night?” Goodnight asked him, eyes traveling over Billy’s figure at the table, a glow still rippling across his face, hair hanging over his shoulders, wearing Goodnight’s old clothes, looking both at home and so out of context in them too.

 

“I was waiting out the storm underwater,” Billy said, the statement presented so simply it bowled Goodnight over with how very not-simple it was. “It was too rough to look for cover on land at that point.”

 

He took a sip of water.

 

“I heard a lot of things. Storms sound different from calm water. The water makes a ringing sound when it hits the rocks. I was pretty deep though, where it was quieter. But then I heard something different. Something struggling. I couldn’t tell what it was and I went to go look.”

 

Billy looked across the table at Goodnight who was listening spellbound.

 

“It was you.”

 

There was a lull in the story, the wind around the cottage teasing creaks and the occasional rattle from the shingles while the two beings sat across the table from each other.

 

“I managed to get you over me and was able to get back into the cove,” Billy continued. “But it was too hard to get you onto the beach in that form, so I changed and carried you the rest of the way. You were almost unconscious and I didn’t know how much water you’d swallowed. I gave you breath. But I think you were just stunned.”

 

Goodnight’s memories at that point were hazy at best, but he was struck by just what an incredible chance his getting out of that had been.

 

“Thank you,” he said quietly. He’d already thanked Billy that morning but he had been half out of it, not fully appreciating anything Billy had told him.

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

There was a stretch of silence, Goodnight lost in thought, and Billy was probably the same.

 

“Well then…how long are you here for?” Goodnight finally asked curiously. For all he knew, once Billy finished his glass of water he would be getting back up and walking back to the beach, diving right in.

 

Billy looked uncertain. “I don’t know. Most selkies don’t stay with humans voluntarily. Only for as long as the human hides their skin. Forever, if they burn it.”

 

Goodnight opened his mouth, to assure Billy again he had no intentions whatsoever towards his skin, but Billy cut him off:

 

“I’ll stay for now,” he said. “I think I’m supposed to. If I have to leave I think I’ll just know.”

 

He took his last sip of water and set his glass down with a kind of finality, as though it was settled just by his saying so. He did give Goodnight a slight smile though, at least acknowledging the oddness of the situation.

 

“Well you’re very welcome to stay if that’s what you like,” Goodnight said. He’d come here to get away from too many people around him, but Billy was so different and Goodnight was absolutely transfixed by him. He couldn’t imagine this encounter ending already.

 

Their glasses were empty and Goodnight got to his feet, taking them to the kitchen as he considered the space. The cottage was really only a kitchen on one side, a living room on the other, and a table between them. There was the loft upstairs where Goodnight slept but there was only one mattress up there.

 

“You can have my bed I suppose,” Goodnight said looking around the space. “I’ll manage with the sofa and…”

 

“Keep your bed,” Billy said. “The sofa will be fine for me.”

 

Goodnight was about to object but Billy held up a hand.

 

“No really,” he said. “I’m used to sleeping on rocks.”

 

Goodnight didn’t think he’d ever get used to the way Billy calmly said the most incredible things to Goodnight, like he was totally unaware of how outrageous they’d be to him. Or maybe he was aware and it was just his way of entertaining himself.

 

“Well I’ll find you some blankets anyhow,” Goodnight said dryly. “Or do you prefer seaweed?”

 

Billy grin was a flash in the dark room.

 

“Blankets would be nice.”

 

“Right,” Goodnight said, feeling a slight warmth at the expression on Billy’s face. He made his way over to the stairs but paused before going up, something having just occurred to him.

 

“How did you change this time?” he asked curiously. “When you saved me?”

 

Billy turned to look at him, half in shadow, half of him lit by a streak of moon coming in through the window. He really was stunning, and Goodnight could have stared at him all night in nothing more than simple wonder. But Billy was looking at him uncertainly and Goodnight elaborated.

 

“You said for a selkie to change into a human they have to be pierced by steel, or someone cries seven tears on them,” Goodnight said. “So how did you manage to change this time?”

 

Billy seemed startled by the question, the smoothness of his face marred by a slight line between his eyebrows.

 

“I don’t know,” he said finally, a small frown on his face like the thought unsettled him.

 

Goodnight waited but Billy didn’t have anything else to stay, still standing in his swatch of moonlight, lost in thoughts Goodnight probably couldn’t even begin to wade into.

 

“I’ll get you some blankets,” Goodnight said at long last. He went upstairs and Billy stayed there, eyes locked on the same place, still deep in thought. Neither said a word when Goodnight brought him back the blankets. And the cottage remained completely quiet and still into the night, the only sounds coming from the wash of waves in the distance, the ocean still awake long after both had gone to bed.

 

 

*

 

 

Goodnight woke up feeling completely refreshed. The extra night’s sleep on top of how long he’d spent sleeping yesterday had made a world of difference to how he felt. He was almost light-hearted as he woke up and threw on trousers and a sweater. He was looking forward to going downstairs and seeing his new houseguest again, the faint sounds from downstairs confirming that Goodnight hadn’t dreamt the whole thing. He went down in a buoyant mood, almost as though it was Christmas morning and he was anticipating the sudden bloom of packages under the tree that had appeared overnight.

 

He didn’t see Billy at first, but then realized he was crouched over by Goodnight’s radio, ear to the speakers and playing with the dials. He seemed to have figured out volume and was now switching between stations with an expression of deep concentration. He looked up as Goodnight entered the room.

 

“What year is it?” Billy asked. And hell if that wasn’t enough to make Goodnight stop in his tracks.

 

“I forgot to ask you yesterday,” Billy added, as though that explained anything.

 

“Nineteen forty-five,” Goodnight said sinking into a chair, looking at Billy in disbelief.

 

Billy just nodded, still adjusting the dials, the stations crackling from one to the next.

 

“I thought it might be something like that,” he said, giving the dial another thoughtful turn. It skipped over to a classical music station and his eyes lit up.

 

“There’s music on here?” he asked delighted.

 

“Quite a lot,” Goodnight said, starting to smile at Billy’s enthusiasm. “Actually I have one of these too if you’re interested.” He got up and went over to his record player, Billy giving a last look at the radio before following Goodnight.

 

“What is it?”

 

“A record player,” Goodnight said. “For music. And these are -”

 

“The records?” Billy said promptly, leafing through them.

 

“Yes,” Goodnight said, only a little thrown. Billy reached out taking a record at random, sliding it out of its sleeve.

 

“Oh that’s Scott Joplin,” Goodnight said. “Ragtime. A little outdated these days but still good stuff. My parents always liked him. Here.”

 

He lifted the needle of the record player about to instruct Billy, but Billy just set it down in the exact right place intuitively. Soon the cottage was full of a jaunty peal of piano notes which tinkled merrily around the room, close together but never tripping over each other.

 

Billy was smiling, a finger tapping against the lid of the record player.

 

“I like it.”

 

They listened to the rest of the song as it was short, and then Billy was deftly lifting the needle and reaching for another record.

 

“Who’s this?” he asked, swapping them out.

 

“Ah, you’ve found Billie Holiday,” Goodnight said. “Trust you to find another Billy.”

 

The first muffled strains of Summertime thumped into the cottage, immediately taking Goodnight back to New Orleans. Billie Holiday’s voice, rough and yet pure at the same time, came pouring in, vibrant and muffled like a muted trumpet.

 

“She’s not to everyone’s taste,” Goodnight said, watching Billy who was transfixed. “But undeniably captivating.”

 

They listed to the recording until it ended, the song and images it conjured for Goodnight fading away into the walls. Billy lifted the scraping needle, again with the adroitness that had been so surprising to Goodnight.

 

“When was the last time you were on land?” Goodnight asked him, and then wished he hadn’t because the expression of peace immediately left Billy’s face.

 

“Eighteen eighty-five,” Billy said, and wasn’t that a kick in the head.

 

“How old are you?” Goodnight asked dumbstruck. Billy just shrugged.

 

“Selkies live a long time. As a seal I could go on living for centuries unless I’m captured. But when I’m in my human form I age normally. At least it seems like I do. This is about what I looked like the last time I was on land.”

 

“Was that here too?” Goodnight asked tentatively. Billy looked up at him, seeming to decide how much he wanted to share with Goodnight

 

“I was in the desert,” he said finally. “It took a long time to find the ocean again. But when I found it I didn’t come out again until now.”

 

“Oh,” Goodnight said, sorry he’d pried. He could tell by Billy’s face that he’d told him only the tip of the iceberg in what was probably a tale of misery. Whatever encounters Billy had had with humanity, he didn’t blame Billy for sticking to the water afterwards. Wasn’t Goodnight doing the same thing by staying here now?

 

It had gotten quiet in the cottage and Billy still looked distant, much to Goodnight’s regret.

 

“Here’s one more,” Goodnight said, intentionally taking out his most upbeat record. “This stuff has exploded in the past few years. Let me know how you find Benny Goodman.”

 

The record started with those unmistakable drums, and Goodnight’s foot immediately began tapping while Billy looked taken aback at the intro. Then there was a syncopated squall of horns. And then the saxophones and clarinets came in and the tune really started, a constant weaving and racing between the instruments, the driving drums never breaking off for a second.

 

“It’s really more dancing music,” Goodnight said over the din, noting Billy didn’t seem to know how to take the explosion of sound from the record. “Oh fine, something like –”

 

He got to his feet, Billy looking up at him in surprise. Goodnight gave him a sheepish grin before engaging in a sort of half-hearted swing step.

 

“And I was never good at this part, but –”

 

He began twisting his ankles in and out jauntily adding a little flair to the Charleston, enjoying the way Billy’s eyebrows raised.

 

“And then if you want to shake it up –”

 

He engaged in a one sided Lindy Hop, kicking out with a little spin, adding the arms, spun around once more, and ended in a ‘ta-da’ pose.

 

“Welcome to nineteen forty-five,” he said jokingly.

 

“Why’d you stop?” Billy demanded.

 

Goodnight dropped his hands and shrugged.

 

“Works better with two people,” he said. Although he’d really stopped because he’d succeeded in his mission of putting the grin back on Billy’s face, hopefully absolving himself of his misstep.

 

“Anyway, I don’t know about you but I need breakfast,” Goodnight said briskly. “Can you eat bacon and eggs, or is it all fish with you?”

 

Billy smirked and Goodnight got to work laying rashers of bacon into the skillet first, so he could fry the eggs in the bacon fat later. Good enough breakfast for anyone, selkies included. While he cooked he let Billy continue to play with the radio. Billy had gotten the hang of the antennae in seconds, and was now absorbed in some radio show of two men bickering about the best way to repair a car, listening intently.

 

“Who were they?” Billy asked while Goodnight set down plates.

 

“A radio show,” Goodnight answered. “You can have one about anything these days. Some channels just play music, others talk about the news, and some are practical, to give advice and the like.”

 

“Okay,” Billy said deep in thought. Goodnight was about to take a bite, when Billy continued, “And what about –“

 

“Eat first. Questions later,” Goodnight said smiling, echoing Billy’s own words to him. Billy’s eyes sparked in amusement, and he bit into a piece of bacon. His expression quickly melted into one of bliss.

 

They ate seconds, Billy ate thirds, and then they cleared up, Billy suggesting they go to the cove. Goodnight had joked about Billy asking questions, but as they walked down to the cove, fishing rods in hand, it was Goodnight who couldn’t stop peppering Billy with questions about being a selkie.

 

“I don’t know,” Billy kept repeating patiently. “I don’t think the same way as a seal and human. It’s similar and I can...keep the same thoughts from both.  But I process things differently as a human or seal.”

 

“Okay,” Goodnight said, forehead bunched in thought as he worked out what sounded like some kind of transference of knowledge. “But what about -”

 

He avoided anything overly personal but there were any number of technical details he was burning with curiosity about. How long can you hold your breath as a seal? About four hours. Can you talk to normal seals? Sort of. Have you ever met another selkie? Yes. How many? Three. Are there selkie conferences? No.

 

“So how do you learn selkie…lore?”

 

“Lore?”

 

“Yeah, you know. Stories. About who you are.”

 

“I don’t know, you just do. Or from whichever selkie you happen to meet, I guess.”

 

“And you ask them questions?”

 

“Not as many as you,” Billy said with a slight smile. “Now pass me the bait. I haven’t tried this in ages.”

 

They got down to fishing, and while Goodnight was used to being in this cove alone, it didn’t feel strange to have Billy there with him. Probably – Goodnight realized – since they already had been here together.

 

Goodnight couldn’t stop himself from sneaking glances of Billy sitting on the dock, casting his line out into the water with a dexterous flair. His face was calm and he kept tilting it up towards the sunshine, breathing in the salty breeze. Goodnight swallowed and baited his own hook.

 

In the end, Billy caught more than Goodnight although they didn’t get too many together.

 

“Well it is midday,” Billy said. “The fish go deeper where it’s cooler. It’s also sunny today, not enough cover for them. We should come back when it rains.”

 

Goodnight nodded, reeling in his line. He glanced at Billy. The companionable silence had been comfortable and he didn’t want to put Billy on edge with more questions but…

 

“Is this your cove or something? Do you live here? As a seal, I mean.”

 

“Not far,” Billy said. “I was born in the seas of Namhae. But I’ve journeyed a lot.” He paused. “After...well...after I found the ocean again, I was just swimming, didn’t know where I should go. This coast...called.”

 

It felt silent on the dock. The wash of small waves lapped on the shore beside them, and a gull cried out. Goodnight felt so strange, strange that he should have ended up here too, for different, or maybe not so different reasons at all. He didn’t know what to say, but Billy had picked up his head again.

 

“Someone else was living here for a while, weren’t they? I wasn’t far, but I steered clear since they went out on the water a lot. They haven’t been back in a few years though, so I came here more.”

 

“Yeah,” Goodnight said. “That was my neighbour’s son who lived here. He died in the war. That’s why he hasn’t been around.”

 

“Oh,” Billy said with a pause.

 

“I didn’t know him,” Goodnight said quickly. “I just moved up here for…well for a break I suppose. Next thing I know, some seal is hanging around and begging for fish, when apparently it could catch them just fine on its own.”

 

He sent a teasing smile Billy’s way. Billy’s eyes just sparkled with zero guilt.

 

“You started it.”

 

“Oh like it’s not exactly what you were angling for. Swimming up with those big eyes. I was onto you the whole time.”

 

They gathered up their things, and Goodnight reflected on how long it had been since he’d chatted properly with someone. He just couldn’t believe that someone was apparently a magical creature straight out of magic folklore. But it was easy to forget when Billy eyes were dancing with that much amusement.

 

The time raced by until evening. The entire day had felt like a dream. Goodnight thought if he pinched himself Billy might just disappear, but there he was, perfectly solid while he stoked the fire enthusiastically. Goodnight felt he ought to be a better host, but Billy was interested in all areas of this human dwelling, whether it was poking through the drawers for utensils or firing up the stove to cook them dinner. Goodnight drew the line at letting him wash up though.

 

Afterwards Goodnight headed instinctively over to the sofas by the fire, Billy trailing behind him, the simple motion feeling like it was already a habit, even though it was the first time they’d done it.

 

“How do you know how to cook, by the way?” Goodnight asked Billy. He wasn’t sure if it was another invasive question, but Billy just shrugged.

 

“Done it before. A little different now, but it wasn’t hard to figure out. And then I just followed your recipes.”

 

“Not my recipes,” Goodnight said, stretching back in his chair. “I found them too when I first moved in, but must have been from the fellow who lived here before.”

 

“The one who died,” Billy said. At Goodnight’s nod, Billy tilted his head.

 

“You said he died in the war, didn’t you? You also told your neighbour that was where we’d met…the war.”

 

“I did,” Goodnight said carefully. “Apologies for presuming, but it seemed safest. And you won’t have to come up with any more details for that cover story.” He paused, mouth twisting wryly. “If someone starts asking you questions about your past, you can just say ‘it’s classified’ and leave it at that. You don’t have to share any stories you don’t want to if you were in the war.”

 

“Like you,” Billy said. A coal shifted in the fireplace.

 

Goodnight looked down, having tensed up.

 

“Yes. Like me,” he said, picking at a stray thread in the sofa.

 

“You don’t have –”

 

“Oh, no don’t worry,” Goodnight said quickly, fending off what sounded like the beginnings of an apology. “I mean lord knows I’ve been asking you enough questions today. You must think me pretty rude.”

 

“I don’t,” Billy said in what seemed like genuine surprise. Their eyes met. Another log shifted in the fire and a cluster of sparks showered from it.

 

“I knew there was a war on,” Billy finally said. “Or something like it. There were new things in the water. Huge long machines. Like giant underwater ships, but closed off. Like a tube. They looked dangerous.”

 

“Well, they were,” Goodnight said. He might not have been navy but he certainly knew the danger of submarines every time he set foot on a ship.

 

“Sometimes when I was following the currents I would swim to the surface,” Billy continued. “I couldn’t believe how much fire was on the water. Things were exploding everywhere, ships going down. There were machines in the air too, dropping bombs on everything.”

 

Goodnight’s stomach twisted to think of Billy’s world being affected by the foolishness of man too.

 

“For a while it felt like a war was going on every time I lifted my head,” Billy said.

 

Goodnight cleared his throat.

 

“Well. I know that feeling,” he said.

 

That was probably more than he’d spoken of his feelings about the war to anyone. It wasn’t much. But looking at Billy’s understanding nod, he felt it had to be something.

 

 

*

 

 

When Goodnight was a younger man he’d gone to see a movie at the cinema, ‘Death Takes A Holiday’. A fantasy in which Death took on a human form and spent three days among the world of the living, blending into their society. Goodnight had enjoyed the premise more than the actual movie, but he couldn’t help being reminded of it now with his new houseguest. Not that Billy was anything like that tall, macabre figure who portrayed Death, leaving a chill in his wake. Billy was the farthest thing from death imaginable: the more Goodnight knew him, the more he was struck by the pure vitality and warmth that ran through him. But there was an element of ‘vacation’ to Billy’s presence here, ever since Billy had decided that his shift into a human form meant that he was supposed to remain in it for at least a little while longer.

 

Every morning began with Billy shaking Goodnight awake, fishing rods and lunches already packed, coffee in thermoses. Goodnight would stumble out the door yawning, Billy beckoning for him to hurry up, he knew a good place around the point. Goodnight would usually perk up after a few minutes of walking, and soon they were both scrambling over the heather and gorse, hopping over streams, two solitary figures making their way around the cliffs, while the sun slowly cast its first rosy ripples over the still grey water which stretched out as far as the eye could see.

 

Sometimes they’d spy a car or a plane in the distance and Billy would have Goodnight explain it. Billy listened seriously, his expression almost stern in concentration, and then he’d either fall silent again or have a follow up. His questions about modernity were few and far between though. When they were cutting through the fields, over ancient stone walls, through bitingly cold salty streams, or dodging stubborn thistles, it felt like the time around them was endless, like they could have been existing at any time in the universe.

 

Sometimes they went into town. Goodnight was wary of Billy attracting attention, either as an Asian looking human in this post-war climate, or as not a human at all. But Magnus must have had a word with some people that a war friend of Goody’s was staying, because they were greeted only with friendly nods. Truthfully Goodnight hadn’t had much to do with the townspeople yet at all, preferring to keep to himself. But with Billy by his side he felt a lot more secure, chatting and joking with the locals. If Billy felt ill at ease being among so many eyes he didn’t show it. But he still stuck close to Goodnight when they were out with other people, almost unconsciously, a constant presence at Goodnight’s side. But no one seemed to think there was anything suspect about Goodnight’s new guest. The fisherman were nothing but friendly to Billy, especially after realizing Billy was someone who knew his tides and currents, and he was duly invited to come out on the boats someday.

 

He also managed to get Billy some new clothes, since he couldn’t go on wearing Goodnight’s clothes indefinitely. Goodnight hadn’t realized how charmed he’d felt seeing Billy in his own ill-fitting clothes until he saw Billy in an entirely new ensemble they’d bought for him. Certainly the black trousers and shirts of thick cloth suited him much more, not to mention they actually fit. But Billy had still hung onto Goodnight’s loosest sweater, which he seemed to like wearing. Certainly it gave Goodnight a not-unpleasant feeling to see Billy looking so at home in Goodnight’s own clothing, especially when they were among others. It was like watching Billy wear a secret skin.

 

For the most part they kept to themselves though, which Goodnight was secretly glad of. He couldn’t help but think of Billy as ‘his’. He knew it was misplaced, and certainly Billy wouldn’t take kindly to any claims of ownership. But Goodnight still couldn’t help a slight sense of discovery where Billy was concerned. He was the one Billy had come to visit as a seal, and he was the one Billy had pulled from the water. But more than that, he was the one who could bring that laugh out of Billy like joyful rippling waves, and he was the one who could pull that smile to his face like the curve of the tide. He was the one who Billy talked to, words bubbling out of him like a brook, and he was the one who listened to Goodnight with eyes that shone like the deepest tidal pools. Even without knowing Billy’s secret, Goodnight would still have been convinced that Billy was magical from day one of meeting him.

 

One morning Goodnight slept in longer than usual. Usually he got up earlier these days, so as to not miss spending any time with Billy, but today Billy was nowhere to be seen. Goodnight stayed calm but he couldn’t help the flutter in his chest when he went outside and saw the footsteps leading down to the cove.

 

He relaxed when he saw Billy in his shirtsleeves, hunched over the rowboat whose motor Goodnight had very impressively botched.

 

“Mornin’,” Goodnight said to him.

 

Billy looked up with an unguarded grin, the kind that never failed to give Goodnight a pleased jolt. Goodnight’s pulse had picked up and he told himself it was just the walk to the beach.

 

“I think I’m almost finished,” Billy said, tightening a spark plug, flicking it with a nail. It let out a dull ping.

 

“You fixed it?” Goodnight asked incredulously.

 

“Well I don’t know yet,” Billy admitted. “Have to try it out first.”

 

Goodnight sighed internally. He already knew it would work perfectly. For someone who had spent most of his life as a seal, Billy was disturbingly adept at human invention.

 

“Alright, it should hold,” Billy said hopping off the rowboat, leaving damp footprints in the sand. “And let’s see…”

 

He revved it up, and the motor roared to life, settling into a powerful, steady purr.

 

“Want to take her out?” Billy asked with another one of those infectious smiles, and Goodnight couldn’t have said no even if he wanted to. Billy tossed him a windbreaker and they pushed the boat out into the water, climbing in.

 

Billy steered the motor, not realizing at first that pushing right sent the prow of the boat left, and pulling left sent it right. But he quickly mastered that too, and was soon steering them out of the cove, navigating the currents at the mouth with an ease that seemed second nature.

 

The water was choppier just outside the little bay, and the boat thumped over the waves in jolting thuds that had them going up and down in their seats. A larger wave crashed against the sides of the boat and Goodnight couldn’t help flinching, remembering his encounter with how unforgiving the sea could be.

 

Billy didn’t miss it.

 

“You’re with me,” was all he said, but it was enough. Goodnight couldn’t have felt safer than if he’d been with the whole naval fleet. There was no way Billy would let anything happen to the skiff, or Goodnight for that matter. Goodnight trusted him wholeheartedly. He sat back in the boat, adjusting to the bump of the waves, and soon they were past the breakers, speeding over the smooth blue, wind whipping through their hair, and the water splashing up and spraying against their faces.

 

It was thrilling to be out on the ocean under the bright sun, the sea stretching out for miles. Goodnight glanced back at Billy who looked equally invigorated to be on the water. Goodnight’s heart had never felt lighter as it did when they seemed to fly past the cliffs, the only thing in the world between the sky and sea.

 

Billy seemed to be steering them with a destination in mind, and Goodnight saw they were drawing closer to the glass-green water at the base of the cliffs. When they were about fifty yards out from the shore Billy cut the motor, and they drifted to a stop, bobbing in the water. Without the roar of the motor the cry of gulls came plain and clear, as did the gentle waves which lapped at the sides of the boat.

 

“I think this is the area,” Billy said, scanning the shore and looking back out at the horizon. The cliffs looked massive beside them, grey green, the jagged rocks catching the sun.

 

“Right area for what?” Goodnight asked.

 

Billy just stood up, and pulled his shirt up over his head. Goodnight wanted to ask what he was doing but found himself distracted by the stretch of gold above him as Billy started tying his shirt into knots, sunlight pouring over his bare shoulders.

 

“Billy?” Goodnight asked lightly in what he hoped wasn’t a croak. He wasn’t blind to his new companion’s almost transcendent beauty, but he mostly tried not to pay it too much mind. That was more of a challenge when said companion was two feet away from him, chest muscles rippling and jerking with his motions.

 

Billy grinned and stepped up on the side of the boat, bare toes curled over the edge.

 

“Be right back,” he said raising his arms aloft. And then he was diving into the water, clean as a jackknife, and disappearing beneath the surface.

 

“What in the –”

 

Goodnight scrambled over to the edge, peering over the sides of the boat, but he couldn’t see anything in the deep, jewel-dark water.

 

“Oh sweet lord,” Goodnight muttered, doing his best not to panic. Rationally he knew Billy wouldn’t have dived headfirst into the North Atlantic in the middle of autumn if he couldn’t handle it. Probably some transfer of seal powers kept him insulated. Goodnight just hoped those same seal powers also enhanced Billy’s lung capacity, since it had now been about a minute since Billy had gone under.

 

Goodnight spent another nerve-wracking minute staring into the waters, seriously beginning to contemplate jumping in too, when he heard a gasping on the other side of the boat.

 

“Crazy bastard,” Goodnight said as he whirled around. Billy was pulling himself up and over the edge and Goodnight rushed over to help him the rest of the way in. Billy’s arms were bone-cold but he didn’t seem any worse for wear. He was breathing hard but he had an elated look in his eyes, and he was holding onto his knotted, damp shirt which was now bulging.

 

“That had better be an oxygen tank,” Goodnight said, sitting on the rowboat bench with an inelegant thump. “Although as to who needs it more right now, I really couldn’t say.”

 

“Goody, I’m fine,” Billy said with a laugh, brushing a wet strand of hair out of his eyes, pants clinging to his legs and dripping steadily on the bottom of the boat. He dropped the rattling shirt to the floor with a thump, and untied it.

 

“Oysters,” said Billy triumphantly, picking one up. He pried it open, chest still rising and falling, and he handed it to Goodnight with an expectant smile.

 

Goodnight could barely swallow around the lump in his throat. He suddenly had an aching need to commit every detail to memory: the steady rocking of the boat, the whistle of the breeze over the open sea, the dripping hand held out in offering, and mostly Billy’s face, breathless, eager, and hopeful.

 

Goodnight reached out and took the oyster, closing his eyes and tipping his head back, sealing the memory with the fresh, cold, salty flesh that slipped down his throat. When Goodnight opened his eyes, Billy’s face was shining at him.

 

They cracked open oyster after oyster, there in the boat with the sun shining overhead. Billy dived down two more times that afternoon, emerging from the sea each time dripping with fresh, salty, frigid water, and they would dig their nails into the mottled shells, tasting the chilly, briny meat inside, like little oceans in their own shells. For the rest of his life Goodnight wouldn’t ever have a meal that compared to those seashells eaten in the bottom of a tiny skiff.

 

Afterwards, full and content, they didn’t leave right away. Instead they leaned back against the chipped seats at opposite ends of the boat, lazily letting the sun beat down on them while the small waves nudged the boat. They stayed there bobbing drowsily, not in any hurry to move.

 

“You’re American, aren’t you?” Billy finally asked him curiously. “ I know you’re not from here.”

 

Goodnight glanced over at him, surprised by Billy’s interest. Here he was sitting with an honest-to-god _selkie_. Surely between the two of them it wasn’t Goodnight’s life that could be of much interest. But looking at Billy’s waiting eyes, he supposed it only made sense that he seemed as unusual to Billy as Billy did to him.

 

“I am,” Goodnight answered, stretching out a little, making himself more comfortable against the edge of the boat. “You know it?”

 

Billy tilted his head at him, sun streaking across his eyes, giving Goodnight an odd look. “I've been there. The last time I was on land. When I was in the desert.”

 

“…oh,” Goodnight said in realization. He hadn’t realized it was _that_ desert Billy had meant when he’d briefly mentioned that experience. He didn’t know that whole story and didn’t want to pry either, knowing it was an area of some sensitivity for Billy.

 

“Well the desert is no place for a selkie,” Goodnight said lightly, trying to steer them away from the topic. “I’m from Louisiana myself.”

 

“What’s it like there?” Billy asked. Their legs were stretched out in the bottom of the boat, almost meeting in the middle.

 

“More water, for a start,” Goodnight said with a small smile. “But probably not the right kind for you either, not down in the bayous. Don’t get me wrong, it makes a pretty picture. All that Spanish moss hanging down to the water, mangroves, water lilies, all the rest…but it’s no place to swim. Too brackish. Algae and mud everywhere, alligators in every swamp. Don’t think you’d like it.”

 

“Don’t think I would,” Billy said amiably. Goodnight burst out laughing, he couldn’t help it. Billy joined in, chin dropping as he grinned, corners of his eyes creasing.

 

“What about you?” Goodnight said when he sobered up, giving Billy’s foot a friendly tap with his own to get his attention. Billy gave it a glance but didn’t seem displeased, at least not judging by the grin that still lingered on his face.

 

“What about me?” he asked, seeming relaxed once more.

 

“You said you’re from Nam…”

 

“Namhae,” Billy said. “That’s just the part of the coast. And it’s different there too.”

 

“How so?”

 

Billy picked up an empty oyster shell and shrugged, toying with with the shell, fingers running over the ridges. The sun was getting lower in the sky, the surface of the ocean starting to ripple in a pale gold.

 

“The water’s different. Warmer, clearer. There’s less salt too. Not much, but you can still tell, if you know what you’re looking for.”

 

“Whiskers help, I’m sure,” Goodnight said deadpan. Billy grinned and knocked Goodnight’s foot with his own, the completely-mimicked gesture making Goodnight break into a helpless grin, heart thumping a little in his chest.

 

“It’s all just more colourful, I guess,” Billy finally said, leaning back. “The coral…the fish…they’re like butterflies, always flying around. They scatter though,  whenever the reef sharks and dolphins come by.”

 

Billy turned his head to the side in thought, taking in the vast coastline, the slowly setting sun hanging in a glowing veil across his face. He smiled.

 

“The cliffs are different too. Smaller but greener. Lots of islands too. The rocks holding them up are black. Volcanic. They sparkle underwater when the light hits them the right way.”

 

His dark eyes flicked back to Goodnight’s, and Goodnight felt he could picture it exactly, if it was anything like the way the reflection of the water was playing off Billy’s eyes now.

 

They held each other’s gaze a moment longer, Goodnight’s pulse thumping in time with the waves that knocked the boat. Then Billy looked away and flicked the shell he’d been playing with back into the water.

 

“And when you came here…” Goodnight said, trying to wrap his head around Billy’s journey and his life, “You said this coast…called you?”

 

“It calls all selkies,” Billy said simply. “We can come from all over, but we all end up here sooner or later. I don’t know if it’s the water or the coast, but there’s something in it that…pulls.”

 

He fell silent, and Goodnight’s mind was spinning. He knew he was hearing things about this mythology that perhaps few humans ever did, and he still had so many burning questions about it. But…

 

He decided to leave it be. He knew there were things about the folklore he’d never know, and even if he knew them he might not even understand them. But at the end of the day it was Billy himself he was more interested in, more than any legends that came along with him.

 

“Well I have one last question,” Goodnight said conversationally, and Billy dragged his eyes back to him.

 

Goodnight nodded to the empty shells littering the bottom of their boat.

 

“Are you full, or do you think you’re still up for dinner this evening?”

 

Billy grinned.

 

“Always.”

 

As though that was their cue, they managed to rouse themselves and clamber to their knees, scooping up the empty shells and dumping them back into the ocean. Goodnight leaned over the side and watched as they spiraled slowly down through the deep green waters until they vanished altogether. He was so engrossed, that the touch on his cheek startled him.

 

He turned in surprise to see Billy drawing his finger back, looking only slightly sheepish.

 

“Your skin,” he said, gesturing to Goodnight’s cheeks. “It’s getting pink.”

 

“Oh,” Goodnight said, ducking his head a little. “Just a sunburn. Or windburn. Happens to us fragile humans.”

 

He expected Billy to laugh at that, and when he glanced back Billy did have a slight smile rounding the corner of his mouth. But those dark eyes were thoughtful as he stared at the wind-roughened skin of Goodnight’s cheeks.

 

“Like coral” he said, almost to himself, and Goodnight flushed, knowing he had to change the subject or his skin would go from said pink to blazing red any second.

 

Fortunately Billy had turned away to take stock of the sun which hung low and deep red over the water, blue and black shadows beginning to brush the sky behind them.

 

“We should head back,” he said. Goodnight nodded in agreement and took a seat on the wooden bench again. Billy resumed his place at the helm and revved the motor back to life. Billy steered them around and Goodnight gripped the edge of the boat as they picked up speed, the boat bumping over each wave. The spray kept landing on Goodnight’s face in cool, salty droplets. But the spot where Billy’s fingers had brushed his cheek still felt like it was on fire.

 

 

*

 

 

Billy had been staying with him for over a month now, and while Goodnight couldn’t speak for Billy, he was pretty sure that Billy was enjoying his impromptu ‘holiday’ on land. Otherwise why else would Billy still be hanging around? He wasn’t sure how much time Billy had voluntarily spent in his human form, but he certainly carried it off with ease, going through his days with a quiet confidence that Goodnight could only dream of. Billy was so composed he almost seemed detached at times, except Goodnight could see how much determined concentration glinted in his eyes when Billy tackled a new project, or how much warm enthusiasm glimmered around the corners of his mouth when he smiled.

 

It had been so long since Goodnight had had the constant company of anybody, and Billy made for fine company, regardless of his fairly fantastical origins. Sometimes he’d reference something about the ocean that would cause Goodnight’s head to plain spin as he remembered who and what his new company actually was. But he also found himself going for long stretches of forgetting Billy’s watery roots; just enjoying the way they could talk easily, or enjoy a comfortable silence together. It wasn’t just that Billy was good company. Goodnight had started to think of him as one of the better friends he’d had. Billy was both steadfast and spirited in his own way, and Goodnight had trouble remembering what it was like when he was staying the house by himself.  Sometimes he could actually feel himself opening back up, warmth cracking through the parts of him he thought he’d frozen over, and trickling through him in warm rivulets. The feelings melted through him until at times it felt like he was drowning from it, but that was okay, since Goodnight already knew that if there was one person who it was safe to be drowning around, that person was Billy.

 

At this point he could admit to himself that he was well and truly infatuated with his companion. Even from day one he hadn’t really stood a chance. But he was mostly content to live off snatches of the feeling: letting himself smile just a curve too wide whenever Billy’s face lit up as he figured out some new invention of humankind...or letting his eyes linger a little too long over Billy when he curled around the record player, absorbed in the music...or indulging the soft ache in his stomach whenever Billy leaned back to enjoy the novelty of letting the sun tickle his face and breathing the ocean air, the sun and breeze wrapping him in billowing light....

 

He was hardly about to raise the subject with Billy though. They’d forged a friendship, delicate for all that it had been immediate, and it hadn’t happened by Goodnight overstepping or being pushy. Billy had good reason to be wary of humans who were taken with him. And even though Billy’s magical nature had long since ceased to be the most remarkable thing about him, Goodnight had no wish to put Billy on edge by making a move that had the potential to backfire spectacularly. Billy had shown a measure of trust in staying with Goodnight, and Goodnight wouldn’t abuse that for the world through unwanted attention.

 

Although…at this point he wasn’t entirely sure such attentions _would_ be unwanted. Goodnight wasn’t sure, but sometimes he could feel Billy looking at him too. He’d put it down at first as curiosity. But curiosity didn’t explain the way Billy often leaned in close, closer than comfort dictated, letting their elbows brush, fingers lingering on Goodnight’s hand as he passed him a net, stealing fleeting touches here and there, wordless expressions of interest, so innocent yet so age-old and unmistakable that they caused Goodnight’s pulse to spark every time.

 

As hard as such a thing was to mistake, Goodnight _knew_ he was a romantic, and he had to remind himself not to let his own feelings influence his perception of the situation. Not to build it up too grandly in his head. If indeed Billy harbored any interests in Goodnight, Goodnight had managed to convince himself it was merely Billy having few other opportunities for comparison. Or to take a Darwinian approach, he’d simply imprinted on the first human he’d seen here, and was now attaching all subsequent human curiosities to him. Lord knew it was the only explanation Goodnight could think of for why someone as captivating as Billy had shown any interest in him in the first place at all.

 

Not mentioning anything turned out to be easy. For all the confidence he’d carried in his youth, Goodnight had never been as genuinely self-assured as he might have hoped. Once upon a time he might have made bold and brazen declarations anyway, accepting a broken heart as par for the course. But these days, Goodnight was trying to let his heart be.

 

In fact, he was amazed at how settled it felt these days. Not entirely, never entirely. But the fears and anguish he’d been nursing since arriving here seemed to have compacted themselves into a tight ball somewhere in the corner of his chest. Not fully gone, but easier to leave be, especially when for the first time in a while he didn’t feel like he was constantly tending to the roiling grey inside him. He felt as though he could stand up straighter. Like his body had room for other things, and letting them in wouldn’t blow his entire self away along with the storm inside.

 

So it was easy enough to keep things to a muted, sublimated dance. And their days followed a similar, simple pattern, until one day Goodnight came back from town with news of an actual dance.

 

“There’s a sort of shindig happening at the pub tonight,” he said, tossing his mail onto the table. Nothing personal, just a few catalogues and a fishing magazine he’d felt honour-bound to subscribe to after moving in.

 

“Shindig?” Billy asked, raising an eyebrow at Goodnight. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, having apparently dismantled Goodnight’s entire radio in the short time Goodnight had been gone, in order to see how it worked.

 

“You know, a to-do,” Goodnight said. “Fiesta. Dance. Party.”

 

“Then why didn’t you call it that?” Billy asked. He would have sounded stern to anyone who’d just walked in, but Goodnight could see the smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

 

“Just building suspense,” Goodnight said easily. “There’ll be reeling apparently.”

 

Goodnight saw Billy’s gaze travel towards the fishing poles in the corner of the room.

 

“Dance reeling,” Goodnight said, lips tugging up. “Traditional folk dancing. Lots of wheeling about and lively stepping in groups, from what I can gather.”

 

“Ah,” Billy said, intently screwing two plugs of the radio together.

 

“Just thought you might be keen,” Goodnight said with a shrug. “You seemed to display an interest in the dance music I’ve played for you before.”

 

“It was very dynamic,” Billy said, straight faced.

 

Goodnight grinned. “Well how about it? We might as well at least check it out. And we’ll look like fools whether we join in or sit it out, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

 

“I’m not worried,” Billy said, chin only slightly haughty as he worked the dials back onto the radio. It just made Goodnight grin more as he walked over to the sink to wash his hands.

 

“That’s the spirit. We’ll have plenty of time to find our sea legs. Or land legs, I do beg your pardon.”

 

Billy snorted as he snapped the last two pieces of the radio together. Then he turned it on, the music blaring out of it at top volume, making Goodnight jump and splash himself with water.

 

“Was that reeling?” Billy asked him innocently.

 

“Whelp,” Goodnight said, grabbing a tea towel and flinging it over his shoulder with panache. Billy smiled and turned it down.

 

The rest of the day passed quickly, Goodnight remembering that maybe he ought to put on something other than one of the thick, cable-knit sweaters he’d more or less been living in since he’d arrived here. He managed to find a couple nicer shirts that weren’t too rumpled, handing one off to Billy before going back upstairs to get changed himself. He stood in front of his army dress uniform for a long time. It was by far the most formal thing he owned but he couldn’t see his way to putting it on. He finally took just the shirt and pants off the hanger leaving the coat. He threw an old suit jacket on over the whole thing, smoothing it down critically in front of the old, rippled mirror in his room with a sigh. He used to enjoy dressing up, but he hadn’t had a reason too for so long, and didn’t know if he felt sillier for trying or for not being able to properly. But when he made his way back down the stairs, Billy looked over, eyes widening in surprise.

 

“It’s just a suit,” Goodnight mumbled, ignoring the heat that had streaked through his stomach at the way Billy’s dark eyes had run up and down his frame.

 

“You look nice,” was all Billy said, dragging his eyes away, and Goodnight had to remember not to stare at Billy either. No easy feat with his his skin warmed by the lamplight, the golden line of his throat standing out against the white of his borrowed shirt.

 

Billy’s eyes snapped back up to his, back in the present, and he smiled.

 

“Ready?”

 

When they got to town it was dusk, blue and purple shade hanging over the town, but the windows of the pub were bright and lively, flaring yellow and orange, flickering from the shadows of people packed inside.

 

The music hit them like a wall of heat the moment they opened the door, fiddles and accordions competing for sound over the loud voices of those already inside. A large space had been cleared inside, most of the tables having been taken out around back. People were dressed up, bright, individual tartans on everyone whether it was a sash or kilt, and some had already taken to dancing.

 

“Goodnight! Over here.”

 

Goodnight spotted Magnus in a corner with some of his friends, and Goodnight nodded, beckoning for Billy to come along.

 

“See you’ve come to join in,” Magnus said, accent as thick as Goodnight had ever heard it. His nose was red, and he seemed rather tipsy, and in high spirits. Goodnight was glad of it.

 

“We’ve come in good faith to observe the festivities, and, if we feel we’ve collected enough research, possibly participate, yes,” Goodnight said.

 

“Does he ever speak English?” Magnus asked both his friends and Billy, who raised his eyebrows at Goodnight.

 

“Me?” Goodnight said in feigned outrage. “And after I’ve seen what passes for English around these parts?”

 

Magnus took no offense and just guffawed, saying something in Gaelic to his neighbours who burst out laughing too.

 

“Billy! Back me up here,” Goodnight said.

 

Billy just grinned, and answered Magnus in crystal clear Gaelic too, making them laugh so hard their drinks spilled out onto the table.

 

“Beset on all sides,” Goodnight mourned. “I’m getting a drink.”

 

“I’ll have one too,” Billy said after him, to Goodnight’s mild surprise, but he made his way to the bar to get them two large beers. They joined the others at the table, and while Billy didn’t say much after that and stuck close to Goodnight, he seemed to be relaxed despite the press of people all around them.

 

The music had been playing jovially the whole time, but then it struck up into a jaunty melody, and Goodnight could tell the mood had shifted. People let out approving shouts and began to get to their feet if they weren’t there already, pulling each other onto the dance floor and arranging themselves into groups. The musicians were stopping and stretching and getting back into position with expressions of determination on their faces now. Goodnight saw a tin whistle coming out, and another musician adjusting a bodhrán drum, all of them looking like they were getting down to business.

 

And then the reeling started and there wasn’t a foot in the room that wasn’t tapping, whether on the dance floor or watching from the sides. Goodnight cheered and clapped gamely, and soon the fiddler was calling out an eightsome reel and more people took to the floor.

 

“Go on then,” Magnus said, giving Goodnight a jerk of his head.

 

“I want to watch and figure it out before I try!” Goodnight protested.

 

“Figure it out up there!” Magnus said, giving Goodnight a shove. Goodnight laughed, sending Billy a helpless look, and took his place between two women, admitting to them he had no idea what he was doing. They just laughed and told him to just follow as best he could.

 

And so he did as the music struck up again, copying the moves around and in front of him as all eight dancers moved in circles about the floor. He soon caught on and was stepping lively with everyone. It helped that dance moves were simple and could be telegraphed in advance. And there were also eight beats per step, so even if Goodnight didn’t pick it up on the first one, he still had seven more to get it right.

 

The song finally came to an end and Goodnight bowed to his partners with a flourish, returning to the sidelines and sending Billy out in his stead. Billy didn’t protest and joined the reelers in a slower-paced, stately looking dance. It looked more complicated as the dancers wove diagonally across the lines. But Billy didn’t seem to even miss a beat, stepping elegantly through the strands of people as gracefully as he did anything else.

 

Goodnight joined Magnus who was working on another pint on the sidelines.

 

“Having a good evening then?” Goodnight asked, sitting down next to him, still watching the dancers, Billy’s dark head unmistakeable.

 

“Aye,” Magnus said. “We used to hold these fairly often but this is our first since…well since the war.”

 

Goodnight glanced over at Magnus who shrugged.

 

“Not that it touched many of us up here,” he said. “But it still didn’t seem right to be carrying on while it was all going on.”

 

Magnus looked into his glass of ale, and Goodnight was about to say something to distract him, but Magnus looked back up.

 

“Arnold wasn’t one for reeling,” he said suddenly. “More into that newfangled swing you hear everywhere these days.”

 

Goodnight smiled.

 

“Of course he was a pretty modern young man,” Magnus said. “When they declared war, well he couldn’t sign up fast enough. Wanted to see more of the world, so he did. I just hope he did actually see some of it, before…”

 

Magnus trailed off and Goodnight’s stomach clenched in sympathy. He swirled his beer around in his glass.

 

“If he liked swing, he’d certainly have gotten his fair share of it during the war,” Goodnight said. “Not that my particular unit got much leave, but I don’t know one person in the war who didn’t try the jive in some basement or another. All us Americans bringing our newfangled styles over.”

 

Magnus snorted and Goodnight suddenly laughed.

 

“I managed to get to one party though, and it was so loud that if there had been an air raid, we wouldn’t have been able to tell. But we carried on dancing, and all of a sudden there was this huge crash and everyone jumps, wondering if it was the start of shells coming down. But it was just some drunk soldier falling into the drum kit. Poor fellow probably thought it was World War Three.”

 

Magnus smiled and then gave Goodnight a curious look.

 

“And how’re you still finding things here? Probably not as exciting a place as you’re used to, but…”

 

Goodnight suppressed a smile. Near-drownings and selkies were plenty exciting, but he couldn’t tell Magnus that. He spied Billy again, leading a partner around on his arm, and softened.

 

“It’s perfect,” was all he said.

 

“How long were you thinking of staying?” Magnus asked casually.

 

Goodnight really didn’t know. He liked the cottage, he wanted to stay there, but…at this point he couldn’t picture himself staying there without Billy. He still didn’t know how long Billy intended to stay, but Goodnight couldn’t imagine staying in the cottage knowing that Billy was out there in the sea, and not with Goodnight.

 

“I don’t know,” Goodnight admitted, looking out at the dance floor which was engaged in the stately dance, the strands of dancers moving together, the dancers a little cramped, but laughing every time they had to squeeze by each other.

 

“Well if you could see your way through to staying out the year,” Magnus began, “I was thinking I might as well sign the deed over to you.”

 

Goodnight looked at him in surprise and Magnus just shrugged, taking a sip of beer.

 

“Lord knows I don’t need it, and well…I like the idea of someone actually living there again after Arnold. Feels better than trying to hang onto it.”

 

“That would be very generous,” Goodnight said, bowled over by the gesture. “I’ll think about it. Thank you.”

 

Magnus made a gruff sound and they sat drinking their beers in an awkward but not uncomfortable silence. The fiddle was still ringing out they both saw Billy make a circle with his partner, following the music without missing a beat.

 

“Queer thing, your friend’s Gaelic,” Magnus commented, gesturing towards Billy with his glass.

 

“Didn’t even know he spoke it,” Goodnight said honestly with a laugh. “But he certainly has a head for languages.” He felt Magnus had gotten the impression that Goodnight had been in intelligence in the war, and it seemed safest to let him assume the same of Billy as well.

 

“No I mean his dialect,” Magnus said. “He spoke Old Scottish Gaelic. Sounded like what my grandparents used to speak to one another. Straight out of the past it was.”

 

“You don’t say?” Goodnight asked. He didn’t know enough about it, and certainly it had caught him off guard to hear the rich syllables roll off Billy’s tongue so easily. But then again why should he be surprised that a creature of myth had the language to match?

 

The song was coming to a close and the dancers bowed to each other. Billy came back to the table, not looking at all ruffled apart from the palest tinge high on his cheekbones.

 

“Well done,” Goodnight said, genuinely impressed, passing Billy another beer. “You certainly held your own out there.”

 

“Aye,” Magnus said. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

 

Billy just smiled and took a sip of his beer. He looked like he was about to say something, but then there was a round of shouting as the musicians launched into a considerably faster tune, and people began to stomp their feet. A space cleared in the middle of the floor, people clapping for people to get in the centre and start jigging. The dancers were excellent, stepping it up a notch, heels clicking in complicated rhythms, sashes flying. A woman beckoned to those on the sides to get up and try their hand, or rather, their feet at it.

 

“I couldn’t possibly,” Goodnight said, knowing perfectly well when he was outclassed. “Magnus, do you jig?”

 

“Aye, but my knees don’t,” Magnus said grinning, making them laugh.

 

“Billy?” Goodnight asked.

 

Billy just shrugged, but he still had a smile on.

 

“What, _do_ you?” Goodnight asked incredulously. He’d been joking but Billy didn’t seem worried at all.

 

“I could try,” Billy said in a casual voice that didn’t have Goodnight fooled for a second.

 

“I can’t believe you,” Goodnight said. “Go prove it.”

 

Billy raised an eyebrow as he finished his drink, loosening his collar. He set his empty glass down on the table.

 

“If you say so.”

 

And then he turned on his heel, back onto the dance floor, and into the center of the ring. Goodnight and Magnus stared at each other, and then immediately scrambled over to watch.

 

Billy joined the throng of dancers without missing a beat, his feet sliding into the action without a false step, knees as high and heels as firm as anyone else on the floor. Goodnight burst out laughing and let out an encouraging whoop. He thought we caught the tiniest smile on Billy’s face in response.

 

The fiddler abruptly changed rhythms with a grin but no one missed a step, Billy included, his back ramrod straight but his feet a clacking blur that made Goodnight dizzy to watch.

 

On and on the fiddler kept throwing out rhythm after rhythm, trying to trip the dancers up, the notes whirling off his strings, but the dancers just caught each one on their feet, juggling them on their ankles, and kicking them back the fiddlers’ way. Everyone clapped along, shouting out, looking for signs of fatigue among those jigging, but none let up, no matter how fast the fiddlers’ fingers popped over his strings, or how furiously his elbow bent to increase the tempo. It was a sea of swirling tartan and thumping heels, but Goodnight couldn’t take his eyes off Billy, light as seafoam, sharp as a wave, a watery whirling dervish that couldn’t be stopped.

 

Finally the fiddler’s bow scraped up in a triumphant flourish and the song was over, people applauding vigorously, those who’d been dancing all bent double catching their breath, all except Billy whose eyes met Goodnight’s, and just before he disappeared in a crush of people slapping his back and pumping his hand.

 

The music started up again, a steadier tempo this time, like the music was letting out a breath. The fiddler was taking a break in a corner, trying to down a beer and wipe sweat from his brow simultaneously. Everyone else laughingly made their way back onto the floor, reforming their lines. Goodnight ended up face to face with Billy who still had that smile tickling the edges of his mouth. And as the lines started to move, and the faces and tartan started to blur together, Goodnight’s eyes never left Billy’s, two bright lights in an endless sea.

 

 

*

 

 

 

They managed to get the door open, almost tripping inside, Goodnight saying ‘shhh’ out of instinct, Billy laughing behind him. It was well past midnight and it felt like the music had spun them the whole way home.

 

“I still can’t believe you,” Goodnight said, hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Mister ‘I can’t dance’ over here turns out to dance like he has hot coals in his boots.”

 

“I never said I couldn’t dance,” Billy laughed, hanging up his coat in the dark room.

 

“You _did!”_

 

“When did I? You just assumed!”

 

“I just ass – did you or did you not sit _right_ there this morning, that same innocent look on your face, and ask me what reeling was?”

 

Billy grinned. “Maybe I just wanted you to give a demonstration.”

 

“Give you a – I’ll give you a demonstration –”

 

Billy laughed as Goodnight swatted at him, and they tussled briefly in the entranceway. Goodnight successfully managed to deliver a pinch to Billy’s neck before going over to the counter so Billy couldn’t see how wide he was grinning. He poured them both some very needed tall glasses of water.

 

There was silence while they drank. Goodnight met Billy’s eyes over his glass, and they both looked away, lips curving around the edges of their glasses.

 

When they were done Goodnight turned on the lantern on the kitchen table for some more light. There was an overhead light that ran on electricity. But the whole evening still felt like a dream, and Goodnight didn’t want to send it scattering by turning on the light.

 

Billy was over by the record player, flipping through Goodnight’s albums.

 

“You’re not all danced out?” Goodnight teased him.

 

“You should have done that swing dancing you showed me before,” Billy said, shaking a record out of its sleeve.

 

“Well I highly doubt it’s caught on all the way up here,” Goodnight said. “And besides, works better with two.”

 

Billy set down the record he’d taken, and soon the strains of slow jazz began to hum through the cottage, one melancholy horn floating over top of low, honeyed piano chords. He’d unknowingly chosen one of Goodnight’s favourite records, and Goodnight didn’t realize he was humming along.

 

“Is this dancing music too?” Billy asked, straightening up.

 

Goodnight shrugged, lifting a hand into the air. “It could be, but it’s more –“

 

Billy’s hand caught his.

 

“For two?” he finished quietly, smile ripping beneath the smooth calm of his face.

 

Goodnight started, staring at Billy with wide eyes. But Billy’s eyes were deep and steady and Goodnight could only nod. His other hand lifted to rest on Billy’s shoulder, the shirt soft beneath his fingertips. Billy slipped an arm around Goodnight’s waist, pulling him close, and they began to move slowly around the same patch of floor.

 

Their chests were pressed close and Goodnight was sure Billy would be able to feel the way his heart was racing in his chest. It was thrilling, it was wild as the sea, and yet it was comfortable too, like the cloth of a well-worn sweater, with Billy’s cheek nearly brushing against his, and his hair tickling Goodnight’s neck.

 

Their socked feet bumped together and Goodnight couldn’t help his huff of laughter, and he felt Billy grin against his cheek. It turned slightly silly, Goodnight adding a flair to the movements, Billy laughing quietly as he let himself be pulled along, both still riding high on the swell of liquor, laughter, music, and the crowd, skin humming together as they made a clumsy pastiche of a waltz.

 

The song faded away, and both slowed their movements, stopping entirely as the record played out, a faint scratching emitting from the turntable in the corner. They were still pressed close, Goodnight couldn’t feel anything besides the thumping of his pulse and Billy’s breath on his cheek, and suddenly it didn’t feel so silly anymore.

 

Goodnight pulled back to look at him, their cheeks scratching along the way, and Billy met his gaze, smile fading from his face, eyes dark, the space between them heavy and trembling. Goodnight had just enough time to register his heart slamming against his chest. And then Billy was surging forward and kissing him hard.

 

It was like falling into the North Sea all over again. He was drenched and spinning, slapped into wakefulness like an icy wave breaking over his head, except Billy wasn’t cold, he was so warm, his lips warm against Goodnight’s, arms circling tight around him, tongue hot in its first light but insistent touches against Goodnight’s…

 

Goodnight moaned and tilted his head, giving Billy better access, winding his arms around Billy’s neck, arching his back at the way Billy’s fingers dug into his spine, tightening in his shirt as he continued to kiss Goodnight senseless.

 

Goodnight felt himself backed into the kitchen wall, a sudden jolt at his back, but Billy didn’t let up for an instant, hands sliding to Goodnight’s waist, lips still searingly hot as they worked Goodnight’s mouth open, kissing him with a single-minded ownership, claiming his territory with such assertion that Goodnight was powerless to do anything but let Billy kiss him, and hold onto him as best he could, a single liferaft in a tossing sea –

 

And as suddenly as it had started it stopped. Billy pulled back and Goodnight was left gasping against the wall, eyes cracked open to see Billy dazed, flustered in a way Goodnight had never seen on him before.

 

“Sorry,” Billy got out, avoiding Goodnight’s eyes still looking somewhere in the vicinity of Goodnight’s chest. His eyes were dark, chest heaving. He shook his head, hair falling around his face where it had come loose, shaking himself back into reality. “Sorry.”

 

“No, it’s okay, it’s -” Goodnight started, but just like that Billy pulled away entirely and Goodnight felt as though he’d lost his handhold on the one piece of flotsam keeping his head above water, nothing but miles of unknown depths beneath his kicking feet.

 

Goodnight watched as Billy turned away, still hiding whatever was in his face from Goodnight. And he walked out of the cottage and into the night air, leaving Goodnight standing alone in the kitchen, no other sound but the pulse in his ears, his own shallow breathing, and the jagged scratch of the needle as the record spun mutely into the night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3, and thank you all for reading this one! I wanted to give a heads up that I'm planning on taking a fic-writing hiatus, as I'm hoping to focus more on some original writing projects (that being said, watch me come crawling back in a week with a coffeeshop AU because I have no self-control). But either way, I just wanted to say thank you all so much for being such a nice fandom and for giving my fics a shot for two and a half years now. I really do think I've grown as a writer with this fandom, so thank you all for such an amazing readership, it really means a lot. I hope you enjoy the last part! <3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sun was dripping pink as it came up over the water, the sky around the sea as purple as the inside of a mussel.  The docks were already busy, the fishermen tramping by and loading up their boats with a great deal of shouting and grunting. The official fishing season was almost at an end, huge slippery shipments of herring and salmon already sent inland packed in ice. In a few weeks most outings would be for the fisherfolk’s own private stores: smoked, salted, and hopefully enough to last through the winter.

 

Goodnight and Billy reached the docks, Billy in a windbreaker and rubber boots. He never seemed to need much extra insulation, and probably wouldn’t for a day on the ocean either. But it would hardly be wise to call any extra attention to him and make the fishermen suspicious.

 

“Ready?” Goodnight asked him.

 

Billy nodded and looked out at the sea, the early morning sun catching his face for a moment in a deep glow. Goodnight felt his chest twinge, just a little.

 

“Magnus’ boat is the blue one,” Goodnight said gesturing. “He’ll make sure you’re alright.”

 

It was absurd to feel protective of Billy who would be immensely capable at getting out of any scrape himself, but Goodnight was aware they actually hadn’t spent a day apart yet since Billy came on land. And knowing even just a shred about Billy’s history of wariness with strangers, Goodnight couldn’t help being cautious.

 

Billy seemed to understand, a small smile on his face.

 

“I’ll be fine. I’m a good swimmer.”

 

Goodnight rolled his eyes but he did feel better. He spied Magnus on the dock who waved at Goodnight and was beckoning for Billy to come over. Billy nodded and turned back to Goodnight, and Goodnight had to remember to school his face, feeling his tongue twist in his mouth, trying to catch whatever foolish words had been about to spill out.

 

“Well. See you later then,” Goodnight said, putting his hands in his pockets.

 

“See you,” Billy agreed, and then walked down to the dock, weaving through the press of bodies, and leaping elegantly onto the boat for a day at sea.

 

Goodnight watched as they unmoored the boats and the little fleet began to slowly disperse over the harbour like a floating, brightly coloured jigsaw puzzle. He didn’t watch them pull out though. He didn’t want Billy to think he would miss him or anything, just because he wasn’t spending the day with him. Goodnight couldn’t ever let Billy think that. Not after Billy had been  _ quite _ clear where they stood.

 

They still hadn’t mentioned that kiss. And at this point, Goodnight highly doubted Billy would. If it had caught him by surprise at the time, it was nothing compared to how agitated Billy had seemed by it. After pulling back, Billy had apologized and practically sprinted for the front door. Goodnight had suddenly entertained the awful thought that Billy might have gone straight for the sea, diving back in. But looking out the window he’d seen Billy’s straight, unwavering shadow standing on the dock, simply looking out at the ocean. 

 

Goodnight wasn’t sure how long Billy had spent out there. But when he'd gone downstairs the next morning, Billy had just greeted Goodnight easily as though nothing had happened. 

 

As much as Goodnight thought of himself as someone who could go with the tide, he hadn’t been prepared for the rush of confusion and hurt that had slammed into him like a quick blow at Billy’s breezy rejection. He’d swallowed down around the sharp clench in his stomach, and they’d had breakfast in the kitchen, like Billy hadn’t had him pressed up against the wall a mere nine hours before, kissing him like his life depended on it.

 

Goodnight moodily kicked a pebble as he made his way through the quiet, sleepy streets. remembering how painful getting through that breakfast had been. And the whole past week had felt the same: forcibly smiling at Billy’s jokes; trying to temper the almost manically casual tone he took on when talking to Billy; avoiding any lingering eye contact since each brush of their eyes seemed to burn him anew… and meanwhile Billy showed no sign of being similarly affected, other than adopting an unusual politeness around Goodnight where previously he’d have shown no qualms ordering him about. It was clear he wished to forget about the whole thing. But Goodnight couldn’t forget as well as Billy apparently. Not when his lips still felt absolutely branded by the feeling of Billy’s mouth against his.

 

Goodnight’s lip twisted up humourlessly. He wouldn’t have pegged Billy for someone to avoid a difficult topic. He carried himself so decisively and assuredly that Goodnight would have assumed that that confidence extended to personal matters as well. But it just went to show, whether human, selkie, or whatever, anyone could get squirrelly. No matter how self-possessed they seemed.

 

Goodnight was seriously contemplating bringing it up himself. He couldn’t take much more of this dance, and just wanted a straight answer. Billy owed him that, if nothing else. He didn’t know how he’d bring it up, just that something in him needed to, if only for the sake of his own dubious sanity. In the immediate months after the war, Goodnight wouldn’t have stood up to anything. The very thought made his heels tingle, ready to bolt. But he felt better these days, and Billy’s caginess had him fired up to boot. Goodnight had been feeling himself gradually settle, and hell if some selkie was going to come along and undo all that.

 

This afternoon. He'd bring it up this afternoon.

 

Goodnight found he was veering towards the library. He knew it was far too early for it to be open, but to his surprise he saw Mrs. Stearns on the front steps, unlocking the front door for a robust man who was taking a large crate out of the back of his pickup truck.

 

“Where would you like these, mum?” the man was saying.

 

“Put it on any table, please,” Mrs. Stearns said as she opened the door. “Oh good morning, Goodnight. You’re up early.”

 

“Can you use a hand over here?” Goodnight asked.

 

“That would be a great help indeed,” she said. “There are still four more crates coming, and this is the only time the main  branch could send the delivery…”

 

Helping with the crates turned out to be watching while the large delivery man went in and out four more times with boxes, each one larger than Goodnight’s torso, while Goodnight held the door open rather meekly. Mrs. Stearns signed the delivery receipt, and the man tipped his hat at them, smirked somewhat at Goodnight before climbing into his pickup and trundling away. 

 

“The main branch has sent over more books that they don’t need or don’t want,” Mrs. Stearns said adjusting her spectacles as they went inside. “Sometimes it’s because they’re simply falling apart, but one can hope.”

 

They went over to the table where Mrs. Stearns cracked open the enormous crates with alarming force. The smell of books was unmistakable, the papery scent thick and intoxicating.

 

“Do you really want to help?” Mrs. Stearns asked him. Goodnight did. “Right,” she said smartly. “Well first things first, we must separate the wheat from the chaff, and see which ones are actually fit to be read. If they’re in good condition, we’ll put them here, if there’s a minor problem, like a broken binding, put them here and perhaps they can be fixed. But if they’re too ripped or simply illegible, I’m afraid we must bin them. I know, I hate that part too, but one must be ruthless. All set?”

 

They sorted through the books one by one, flipping through them and setting them aside. Goodnight enjoyed the detached labour, the mindless organization satisfying. The musty scent of books was comforting and he soon fell into a contented rhythm, the only sounds coming from the scrape of pages together, and Mrs. Stearns occasional hum of consideration.

 

When they’d put aside only a small pile of books that looked like they’d been dropped in the sea at some point, Mrs. Stearns produced a large pile of paper pockets and blank borrowing cards which they began pasting to the back covers of all the book. And at last Mrs. Stearns declared them ready to start cataloguing and shelving them.

 

“I don’t suppose you have any knowledge of the Dewey Decimal System, do you? Oh really? Well even so, I only use it for the non-fiction here. Fiction is alphabetical by last name, and I shall leave that to you, if you feel up to the task.”

 

Goodnight graciously accepted the responsibility, and soon the library was full of the scratching of pens while they got to work labelling and recording all the books, occasionally getting up to shelve one of the books in its new place.

 

They worked so diligently and had been so absorbed that suddenly it was already lunchtime, neither noticing the way the morning had smoothly rolled by. Mrs. Stearns offered to walk over to the pub to see if she could bring them back something to eat.

 

“No really,” she insisted. “My treat. This would have taken me twice as long alone.”

 

While she was gone, Goodnight picked up the last book he’d recorded. It was an anthology of Scottish poetry, pages faded as he opened it, a few motes of dust spiralling out. He turned the pages, scanning the titles of poems. And then he stopped short.

 

‘The Selkie of Skelmorlie’ it read at the top of the page, in black, looping letters, stanzas travelling down the page like the curved links of an anchor dropping into the sea.

 

Goodnight looked around, almost like he was being spied on.  He looked back at the page, words fairly shining on the page. He picked up the book, gingerly as though it might disappear, and brought it over to a table in the corner, and began to read.

 

**_The Selkie of Skelmorlie -_ ** **_Anonymous_ **

 

_ I left my footsteps on the night, a curve across the sand, _

_ A window of moonlight came in bright, as I lifted up my hand. _

_ Between my fingers, on a rock, was a trick of light and sea, _

_ For there she was, a sight to shock, the Selkie of Skelmorlie _

 

_ Her skin lay there beside her feet, a shining leather fold,                                          _

_ Thick as stone and soft as sheet, and warm, so I'd been told.                                                  _

_ For while they say that love and luck, could that same skin bring to me,                              _

_ That skin is not for me to touch, of the Selkie of Skelmorlie. _

 

_ I crept along the moonlit beach, as quiet as the night, _

_ And I stretched out my hand to reach towards that luring sight _

_ And reader, could you understand what then came over me? _

_ As I took the skin within my hands of the Selkie of Skelmorlie _

 

_ I took her skin back to my home, and knew she followed behind, _

_ For without her skin she could not roam, and the selkie girl was mine _

_ So she stayed with me for many years, the finest wife you’d see. _

_ And never let me see her tears, that Selkie of Skelmorlie. _

 

_ There came an evening I was out, and left her all alone, _

_ My selkie wife explored about after I’d left home, _

_ And from the attic came a sound as desperate as a plea, _

_ And hidden there, her skin she found, the Selkie of Skelmorlie. _

 

_ She held the skin up to the light, and felt its littoral call, _

_ And with it she at once took flight towards the ocean’s thrall. _

_ She jumped into the ocean spray, returning to the sea. _

_ For never was she meant to stay, the Selkie of Skelmorlie. _

 

_ Sometimes I look out to the sea and think I hear her voice. _

_ And remember how that in my greed I’d left her with no choice. _

_ For they are not for us to keep, the bodies of the sea. _

_ Her home will always be the deep, _

_ The Selkie of Skelmorlie. _

 

Goodnight held the book in his hands, staring at the ripples of the text that seemed to lap into one another like the tide. He gazed down at them, unsettled somehow. He wanted to read again from the top, but glanced up as Mrs. Stearns returned with two papers bags, grease beginning to stain through. Goodnight closed the book reluctantly, mind spinning.

 

The meal passed distractedly for Goodnight, and when they’d finished eating Goodnight got ready to go. But before he did…

 

“Don’t suppose they’re ready to be checked out yet, are they?” he asked, holding up the book of poems. He felt nervous, almost like when he was a younger man, taking out books like Death In Venice and Brideshead Revisited, camouflaging them in a larger stack of innocent titles, hoping the librarian wouldn’t guess their relevance to Goodnight. Mrs. Stearns got her stamp, flipped open the book to the back page, and there on the pocket Goodnight had carefully pasted on, she stamped the return date. Goodnight stared at the ink smudged onto the thick paper.

 

Back at the house Goodnight read the poem again while soup simmered on the stove, alternating between combing through the verses and staring thoughtfully at the wall.

 

Wasn’t this how all selkie stories came to pass? He was familiar with the basic premise: a human sees a selkie, falls in love and takes the selkie skin for their own, thereby forcing their selkie love to stay with them. In some stories the selkie loved them back, in some they were held against their will, but either way the end was the same: the selkie belonged in the sea and that was where they’d return, come high tide or low.

 

_ How romantic _ , Goodnight thought with a snort, wondering why these stories were seen as romances. 'Cautionary tale' would be a better fit. Theft, coercion, and entrapment weren’t exactly Goodnight’s idea of a sweeping romance. There couldn’t be a love story when there was dread on both sides. Not for the selkie, and not for the human who invariably ended up more alone than he’d started. 

 

Dread...Goodnight was hit with a sudden creeping sense of unease.Billy didn’t  _ seem  _ at all wary about staying with Goodnight...but he had told Goodnight in no uncertain terms to drop the matter of his skin that first evening. And in some ways he was keeping Goodnight at arm’s length now. What if Billy’s current distance  _ wasn’t  _ him being cagey like Goodnight had thought...but of a sense of dread? What if he thought he’d made a mistake in kissing Goodnight, and was now worried it would awaken a greed in Goodnight, one that would have Goodnight trying to force him to stay?

 

Goodnight felt appalled by the very thought. Billy couldn’t really imagine that Goodnight was that kind of person, could he? But it was the only explanation Goodnight could think of for why Billy had pulled back so abruptly after kissing him so warmly. Not wanting Goodnight to get ideas about things that weren’t his right. 

 

Goodnight pushed the uncomfortable idea away immediately. He didn’t like looking at it, and he couldn’t believe that was how Billy was feeling anyways. After all, it was Billy who had come to him, wasn't it? He could have left Goodnight floundering in the storm, but instead had saved him and stayed with him. Billy had always been the one calling the shots in this arrangement, and Goodnight had never once for a moment thought he’d had any real sway over Billy. 

 

But as set as Goodnight had been on asking Billy where they stood, how could he now? Not if it was going to make Billy tense up and...and think that he had to leave Goodnight for good.

 

Biting his lip, Goodnight opened the book again, each stanza hitting the bottom of his stomach with an unpleasant thud as he read and read and read again.

 

The sun was hanging low in the sky by the time Billy came back in, the sea breeze following him into the room, making the pages of the book flutter.

 

“Good catch?” Goodnight asked him, glancing up.

 

“Apparently I’m a good luck charm,” Billy said gravely. “Magnus said it was their best catch all year.”

 

“You don’t say?” Goodnight said, straightening up. He discreetly placed the book on the coffee table, face down. “What did you do, politely ask your fish friends to swim into the nets?”

 

“No,” Billy said, shaking off his windbreaker. “That’s what mermaids do.”

 

Goodnight stared at him. “Are there…?”

 

Billy shook his head sternly at Goodnight, but his eyes were twinkling.

 

“You’ll be believing in selkies next.”

 

Goodnight rolled his eyes while he went to set the table, letting Billy chatter. He was in a good mood, Goodnight could tell, eyes bright, cheeks red, full of stories of how he’d directed them into a warmer current –

 

“ – you can see it, when the water looks like it has layers to it –“

 

– and soon the fish were just filling the nets which they could barely haul up before they were overflowing.

 

“Well done,” Goodnight said, accepting the two enormous fish Billy thrust his way, wrapping them up and putting them into the icebox. And then he suddenly checked himself, the sheer routine of everything walloping him over the head.

 

“What’s wrong?” Billy asked, having seen him pause.

 

And Goodnight could have done it. He could have asked Billy any one of the questions that had been circling through his head like a carousel all week. ‘ _ Why are you still staying with me?’  _ was one. ‘ _ Why did you kiss me that night? _ ’ was another. And most crushingly:  _ ‘Why haven’t you done it again? _ ’

 

Goodnight couldn’t say he didn’t have an opening. It hung right there within reach. But his gaze fell to the back cover of the book of poetry, the title hidden away from the room, practically warning his feelings to do the same. And Goodnight couldn't risk it.

 

“Nothing,” Goodnight said. “Pulled a muscle at the library.”

 

“I can’t figure out how those sentences go together,” Billy said thoughtfully, and Goodnight scoffed. And the moment swept briskly away, he went to get them some bowls.

 

They ate mostly in silence. At one point somewhere between Goodnight’s third and fourth attempts to start a conversation that didn’t quite make it to his mouth, he looked up at Billy. Billy had been gazing at him but looked quickly away, the force in his gaze slipping off Goodnight like the beam of a searchlight, leaving Goodnight left in the darkness, stranded somewhere in No Man’s Land, where calling out would either get you the help you needed or exactly what you were dreading.

 

So Goodnight kept his mouth shut, his eyes down, and continued to eat. And if the floodlights of Billy’s gaze happened to sweep over him again, at least Goodnight had made his choice. Maintaining the status quo didn’t win anything, but at least he could say he hadn’t lost anything yet either.

 

 

*

 

 

It was low tide and the rocks were laden with heavy piles of damp seaweed. The sun was out and crabs scuttled for cover under the rocks to avoid the seagulls overhead, all circling and waiting to catch and carry one up high, just to drop and crack them open on the same rocks below.

 

Goodnight and Billy were harvesting mussels, twisting them off the large rocks, pulling them free from where they grew in dark, shining clusters, dropping them into buckets to be cleaned and debearded later.

 

They were in a different cove, one that Billy had said was particularly good for mussels. It had taken them an hour to walk there and they hadn’t spoken much, just walked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. But Goodnight’s weren’t exactly a pool of calm and certainty.

 

Ever since reading that damn poem, Goodnight had been a simmering vat of frustration. He’d _thought_ he’d decided on a course of action before reading it: he’d ask Billy about what had happened between them, and depending on the answer, ask Billy to stay. But after reading that poem, how  _ could  _ he ask Billy to stay? Billy didn’t belong here, certainly didn’t belong to Goodnight. And if Goodnight asked him to stay he’d be no better than that lout in the poem, trying to snatch skin that wasn’t his, and clinging on desperately to someone who was never meant to stay in the first place. It made him queasy to even contemplate. 

 

There was also the chance that if Goodnight brought it up, then Billy…well…Billy might leave. And damn it all, despite everything, Goodnight didn’t  _ want  _ Billy to leave. ‘Love’ was a big word, not one Goodnight was even sure he had in him anymore, but if not for Billy, who else? He’d rather have Billy here with him and nothing else happen between them, than not have him at all. Goodnight felt like an old cracked vase, with Billy’s arrival as the final piece falling into place. It was fragile, held together by spidery lines, but one wrong move could cause the whole thing to shatter. Better to hold still and keep what was left of himself together, cracked as it was.

 

But with nowhere to move in either direction, Goodnight had been feeling frustratingly impotent, this paralysis making him testy and resentful, putting him in a blacker mood than usual as of late. And he knew Billy had noticed.

 

 

A gull wheeled through the soft, grey sky, catching Goodnight’s eye, making him squint upwards. The sun was doing its best to break through the clouds, but its rays weren’t quite enough to puncture the haze, filling the air with the palest glow, the waves lapping softly at the rocks, far off in low tide. Goodnight watched the water billow lightly and sighed.

 

No Goodnight wasn’t selfish enough to ask Billy to stay. He was selfish enough to  _ want  _ him to though. But couldn’t help feeling slightly resentful of Billy. Billy had come to  _ him  _ as a seal that first time, had decided to stay with him as a human, had kissed  _ him _ , and now was still staying with him. But Billy couldn’t have any way of knowing how much his time here had affected Goodnight. Billy had a life that spanned maybe even centuries, while Goodnight had had the lifespan of a shadfly by comparison. How could Goodnight be more than just a blip on Billy’s radar? And how long was Billy planning on staying anyways? Just long enough for Goodnight to get attached, and then dive right back into the damn sea? 

 

He wrenched a mussel off a rock with particular vigour, dropping it into his bucket where it joined the other slimy shells.

 

“Not that one,” came Billy’s voice, interrupting his thoughts. “Not big enough yet.”

 

He reached into Goodnight’s bucket, pulling out a more adolescent mussel, and tossed it back into a tidal pool. And the simple action had Goodnight seeing red. But he clenched his jaw and reached out for another, reaching around the mound of the shell for the base.

 

“Twist it first,” Billy said coming over. “Like this.”

 

He slid his hand over Goodnight’s, fingers joining his at the surface of the rock, but Goodnight yanked his hand back as if burned.

 

“Fine, you do it,” Goodnight said muttered, walking to the other side of the rock, doing his best not to slip on the algae.

 

Billy watched his efforts. Goodnight thought he might have seen a brief pulse of hurt in Billy’s eyes when he glanced over, but he must have imagined it because now Billy just looked confused.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” Goodnight said crossly reaching for another mussel to which he gave an exaggerated twist, dropping it into the bucket where it landed with a petulant thunk.

 

Billy circled around the rock coming face to face with him. He still looked confused but Goodnight thought he could read some annoyance in Billy’s eyes too. He looked quickly away in case it would encourage Billy to keep probing. Goodnight wasn’t in a mood to appreciate Billy’s tenaciousness at the moment. He could feel his bad mood growing, the one that made him do stupid things like lean out into the North Sea in the middle of a storm.

 

“Something’s wrong,” Billy said, dogging his steps as Goodnight moved around him towards the dark sand.

 

“I said it’s nothing,” Goodnight said doing his best to sound normal, anything that would make Billy back off, but he already knew it was no use. Billy was as persistent as a human as he’d been as a seal after fish.

 

“No, it’s not,” Billy said pointedly. “You’ve barely said anything all week.”

 

Goodnight barked out a laugh, because wasn’t  _ that  _ rich.

 

“Oh  _ I’ve  _ barely said anything,” Goodnight said incredulously. “What about you?”

 

“What about me?”

 

Goodnight stared at Billy who now seemed guarded, shoulders tense, grip tight on his bucket, eyeing Goodnight uncertainly.

 

“You haven’t said anything either.”

 

“About what?”

 

But his voice was too blank, too innocent to have been genuine. 

 

“Seriously?” Goodnight asked in disbelief, but Billy wasn’t looking at Goodnight anymore. He was eyeing the sand like he was trying to bury his way in deeper, like a crab scuffling low to avoid the beak of a seagull.

 

“You can’t…” Goodnight gestured in frustration at Billy who only needed a door to be more shut off from Goodnight. “You can’t just leave me hanging like this. Like you’re just playing with your food.”

 

He hadn’t meant to say that last part, but it had just slipped out. Billy’s head shot up in surprise and Goodnight looked down, embarrassed by the vulnerable words he’d let out into the air, however much he’d meant them.

 

“That’s not…I didn’t mean…” Billy trailed off sounding as lost as Goodnight felt. For a brief, riled moment he started to say: “ _ You _ never said either –” but then cut himself off and was back to clamming up.

 

“What?” Goodnight pushed.

 

Billy just swallowed, eyes still in the sand.

 

“It’s not…it’s not that simple…”

 

There was a long pause, the tense silence only punctuated by the lap of the waves down the pebbly shore.

 

“I don’t know what we’re doing here,” Goodnight admitted helplessly. He dropped the bucket he was holding and took a step closer to Billy, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

 

“You don’t?” Billy asked quietly, still not looking at Goodnight. A faint line had appeared between his eyebrows. He opened his mouth, presumably to try again:

 

“I’m not…with this…” but Billy broke off again to rub a hand over his mouth in frustration that he couldn’t find the words, as human a gesture as Goodnight had ever seen on him before.

 

Goodnight had the brief though that he should let Billy work out whatever it was he was thinking, but this close to the subject they’d been dancing around all week, he pressed instead.

 

“I mean is this some sort of vacation to you?” Goodnight asked. “Some kind of shore leave? Come out here just to distract yourself –”

 

Billy’s head snapped up in surprise, the words seeming to startle him back into the present. “No. No that’s not –”

 

“Really? Then what? ‘Cause the way I see it is, you finally get bored of hiding in your swimming pool, and decide to –”

 

“ _ Hiding _ ?” Billy asked, and finally a note of anger crept into his voice. Goodnight was practically relieved by it. At least it was some sign Billy had feelings about all this too.

 

“What else do you call it?” Goodnight said accusatorially, words rushing to the surface. “You said yourself, you knew there was a war going on but chose to stay underwater, hiding out, not wanting to go out…”

 

Billy had once told Goodnight about surfacing during the war and seeing bombs and oil and flames all around him, only to duck his head again. Goodnight hadn’t realized how very much he’d resented Billy’s ability to do so until now.

 

Billy was undaunted though and snapped: “What, like you’re doing here?”

 

Goodnight blinked at the harsh tone he hadn’t heard from his companion yet. Billy took a step forward.

 

“You’re not from here either. You have a home. Why didn’t you go back there?”

 

“That’s none of your business,” Goodnight said, not caring about the hypocrisy for a second.

 

“You’re allowed to bury your head and no one else is, right?” Billy said, eyes flashing, black as the seaweed around them. “You’re the only one who’s been hurt?”

 

“Now see here, you don’t –”

 

“They took my  _ skin _ ,” Billy yelled at him, fists curled, eyes wild, teeth practically bared, and the look on his face had enough savagery in it that Goodnight actually took a step back.

 

“Billy…”

 

“Do you have any idea what that  _ feels  _ like? Someone’s  _ hands _ …”

 

He trailed off, voice gotten tight, chest rising and falling, and Goodnight’s stomach clenched, all his anger leaving him in an ice cold rush of regret, compassion, and guilt.

 

“I didn’t –”

 

“And when I finally got it back I said I’d never go back on land, said I’d never let anyone take my skin again,” Billy snarled. “Except I  _ did  _ go back, and you know why? It was to save  _ you _ . And how do I know you’re not going to try and take my skin too?”

 

Goodnight felt like he’d been slapped. He didn’t think Billy had meant to say that last part, but it was out there now, and Goodnight felt sick to his stomach. He’d felt twisted enough by the very thought already, hoping, praying desperately that he wasn’t capable of such wickedness. But to know that Billy had been staying with him and all the while having that same nagging fear…

 

The anger had faded from Billy’s face and he eyed Goodnight warily like he might have gone a step too far. Goodnight wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing him more hurt than he already felt. He schooled his face and drew himself up to his full height to stare Billy down as best he could.

 

“Can’t imagine why anyone would want it,” he said with as much acidity as he could muster.

 

A series of emotions struggled for control of Billy’s face: disbelief, anger, and worst of all, a split-second of grief. But in the end, Billy fixed Goodnight with as nasty a look as Goodnight had ever received in his life, turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving Goodnight standing there uselessly beside a half-full bucket, heart racing in his chest.

 

Goodnight sat down on a rock, scrubbing a hand over his face. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, listening to the terns and the faint crash of waves further down the beach, watching the hermit crabs scuttle through green slimy fronds in the tidal pools. His insides were reeling, still a mess of emotions: guilt, frustration, righteous indignation, guilt again…but he stayed seated, watching the indifference of the natural world around him, until he could view his own feelings with indifference too.

 

He finally sighed and got to his feet, looking down the beach in the direction Billy had gone. Goodnight turned the opposite way and started walking. He needed to clear his head.

 

 

*

 

 

“Can I come in?”

 

Magnus looked up from a corner of the room. Goodnight had barely seen him at first, so naturally he blended in to his surroundings. He sat in a wooden chair by the fire, a huge tangle of nets at his feet.

 

“Pull up a chair. If you can find one.”

 

Goodnight walked into the cottage, looking around for an available surface that wasn’t covered in netting, packing crates, or tackle. He pulled a chair in from the kitchen, drawing it up to the fire too, leaning in with a shiver.

 

“Get yourself a cup,” Magnus said, nodding to the mug of coffee he had set carefully out of the way while he worked. Goodnight gratefully went and found his own in the kitchen, poured himself a cup of hot, strong coffee, and let the warmth bleed into his fingers while he walked back into the living room.

 

It wasn’t his first time in Magnus’s house but he didn’t normally linger. Mostly he’d just stopped by to ask questions or offer his services for anything that needed doing around the place. Not that Magnus wasn’t far more resourceful than Goodnight on any given day, but it seemed only right to ask, especially after all Magnus had done for Goodnight when he’d first arrived, all the small kindnesses he managed to deliver under the guise of brusque inspection.

 

Magnus’ house was cramped but never in a cluttered way. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling like cast-iron windchimes, fishing rods leaned up against every vertical surface, and old nets were spread suspended over the walls giving the appearance that a homey, orderly spider lived there. Despite the collection of supplies, some old, some still in use, none of it seemed hoarded or derelict. Everything had a place and seemed right at home where it was, Magnus most of all.

 

Goodnight sat back down in the chair blowing on the coffee, chilled fingers still digging tight into the chipped, white porcelain.

 

“Feet,” Magnus commented, pulling the net closer to himself and out of the way of Goodnight’s feet, like he was drawing in the hem of an enormous twine ballgown.

 

Goodnight dutifully pulled in his feet and watched with interest as Magnus weaved a strange wooden slat through the net. He knew it was a needle but it looked like no needle Goodnight had ever seen: flat, tapered wood, a hole in the centre, and with an extra slat down the middle around which Magnus had wound fresh twine. He moved the needle deftly through the mesh of the net, much like the way a shuttle worked through a loom. Magnus wove the new string around the areas with patches, slowly yet easily tugging the body of the net back together.

 

This wasn’t typically a fisherman’s work, Goodnight knew. The men might be the ones to use these nets while out on the boats, their shoulders straining as they hauled them back in, sodden and heavy with their catch. But it was often their wives who took on the laborious task of mending and repairing, as well as baiting their husbands nets and lines. Magnus, however, as a widower was obligated to perform this act of tailoring himself. He did it well though. He would certainly be used to it after so long living alone.

 

That was probably why his cottage was so comfortable too, and mostly organized, give or take a few piles of newspapers in the corner. Most young bachelors could cheerfully live in the most barren kind of squalor, using brooms as a curtain rod and procrastinating for years on fixing that lampshade. And recent widowers, depending on how long they’d been married, could all too easily shrink into clutter while their grief piled up around their ears.

 

But Magnus, who was left a widower as a young man with a young child couldn’t have afforded to indulge in any willful ignorance of housekeeping duties. He had a son to raise and care for, and no guarantee that a someone would come along to help him. Goodnight didn’t know how many of these homemaking skills he would have already known, and which ones he had to learn fast, but learn them he did.

 

Goodnight looked up at the mantelpiece where there was an old, grainy photo of a much younger Magnus who towered over the small figure of his wife. Their hands were clasped and both appeared to be in their Sunday best. Goodnight guessed it was taken on a honeymoon. Both were smiling although the features on the faces had faded somewhat over time. Goodnight wondered how distinctly Magnus could still picture his wife’s face. Wondered how long it took before the face of someone you loved started to blur after they left.

 

He looked down into his coffee mug, hands now restored to a ruddy pink but the rest of him letting out a slight shiver as it started to warm up too.

 

“Right around the corner, isn’t she?” Magnus said, watching him.

 

“Who’s that now?”

 

“Winter,” Magnus said, looking amused at Goodnight’s distraction. “Not much longer now.”

 

“So tell me, exactly how cold does it get up here anyway?” Goodnight asked with some trepidation.

 

“Well let me put it this way…you’ll want a better coat than that,” Magnus said, a slight grin as he circled the needle around the edges of another patch in the net, new string glimmering against the stiff, salty twine.

 

“I’m sure,” Goodnight said rather ruefully. Magnus chuckled and tied off the string, moving on to a new part. He worked in silence for another minute and then asked, eyes still focused on his progress:

 

“Billy staying the winter too?”

 

Goodnight glanced up but Magnus seemed wholeheartedly absorbed in his net. He didn’t know what to say, or what lay behind the question.

 

“I don’t know,” he finally said honestly, stomach clenching unpleasantly.

 

Magnus nodded. He drew the stave of a needle through the webbing, diving back in again, like the path of a gull. His forehead was creased in thought like he wanted to inquire more, but wanted to avoid undue meddling even more.

 

“Seemed to me he might,” was all he said. And his voice was indifferent, but Goodnight wasn’t fooled. He wasn’t sure how much Magnus had seen in him when he’d first arrived, or how much he’d only put together after knowing him more, but the man was no fool, nor had he shown any umbrage to whatever he probably suspected. Goodnight took a chance.

 

“Not sure how easy I am to live with,” he said lightly, but his heart had begun to pump harder in reflexive anticipation of a response one could never be sure of.

 

Magnus looked up and their eyes met in the small, cramped room, and Goodnight saw Magnus understood what he meant, and also that it was okay. Magnus just nodded and looked back down, and Goodnight knew that they could be friends for fifty years and that was all they’d probably ever say on the matter, but that it didn’t diminish the moment of understanding or acceptance.

Magnus surprised him though.

 

“We get pretty stuck in our ways, don’t we?” he said, voice rough and gentle as his hands as they pulled the frayed edges of the net together.

 

“Yeah,” Goodnight said, looking into the fire. He watched the flames crackle, absorbed, and they sat in silence for a few more minutes while Goodnight drank his coffee, until Magnus glanced back up.

 

“Say something stupid?” he asked, a white, bushy eyebrow raised, voice so shrewd it startled Goodnight into laughter.

 

“Beyond stupid.”

 

Magnus chuckled as tied off the last stitch of the net and began to fold it carefully. He placed the wooden slat back into a needle bag and stood up, stretching with a sigh.

 

“Well take it from me,” he said, “Clear the air while you’ve still got a chance. You never know when it’ll be your last chance.”

 

He stood where he was, shock of white hair nearly brushing a low ceiling beam, but his eyes moved to the mantelpiece and he looked the photos there with a trace of wistfulness.

 

“You mean your wife?” Goodnight asked hesitantly.

 

Magnus shook his head. “No. Our years together were too short but I’ll never regret any of them. I mean my son.”

 

Goodnight followed his gaze to the large framed photo next to the old, faded one from the honeymoon. It showed a young man in a brand new uniform. Magnus’s son, Arnold. This photograph was much glossier, much sharper than the one of Magnus’ wife, and Goodnight could only imagine that its recent, fresh quality was an even more painful element to a memory that stared down at you from above the fire every day.

 

“You told me he wasn’t about the quiet life,” Goodnight offered, giving Magnus the opportunity to keep talking.

 

“No,” Magnus said with a huff of laughter. “Not a bit. He was always craving the next adventure. Had to go down to London when he was ten years old, took him with me. Never seen eyes so wide. Believe me, that trip was all he talked about for the next five years. You’d think he’d discovered the bloody pyramids of Giza.”

 

Goodnight smiled and ran a thumb over the edge of his mug.

 

“I knew he was going to sign up,” Magnus said more quietly. “And I knew there was no way I could talk him out of it. But I still tried.”

 

“How’d he take that?”

 

Magnus let out a whoosh of air and shook his head, grim smile on his face.

 

“Not well. Said I was being selfish, and maybe I was. He was a stubborn lad and we’d butted heads plenty of times, but never like that. Told him I didn’t raise him to be someone’s target practice, he said I didn’t raise him to be a coward either, and so on and so forth.”

 

His smile faded as he stared at the photograph, lost in it.

 

“Was that…the last time you spoke?” Goodnight asked quietly, already dreading the answer.

 

Magnus shook his head.

 

“No. No I took him to the train station the next day. But it was tense, lad, I’ll not lie. Still though, I shook his hand, and he got on that train. Should have hugged him.”

 

Goodnight didn’t think Magnus had meant to say that last part, and the man blinked coming back to himself. Then he just sighed.

 

“I knew he was going to go, should have just supported that from the beginning. That’s all he really wanted.”

 

He glanced over at Goodnight who was staring at him, hanging onto every word.

 

“If he wants to go he’ll go, lad, and if he wants to stay, he’ll stay. People are going to do what they’re going to do, and we can’t choose it for them. We can choose how they feel about it when they do it though.”  

 

“How?”

 

“By being honest,” Magnus said. And then he smiled. “And not by still sitting in here talking to an old man like me.”

 

 

*

 

 

Goodnight walked back along the trail to his cottage, dusk falling, mind playing over both conversations he’d had that day. The venom he and Billy had spat at each other, to the gruff, gentle advice he’d gotten from Magnus. Magnus was right. The only thing he could do was be honest with Billy. It might not change Billy’s mind – whether Billy had made it up yet or not – but at least it would let him make it fairly.

 

Night had fallen by the time he reached the cottage, the house standing dark. He stilled in surprised which quickly then turned into dread, his stomach plunging in a sick drop. He ran for the door.

 

“Billy?” he called, shoving the door open and looking wildly around the room.

 

It was completely quiet, nothing to show that anyone had come back there, maybe eaten dinner, maybe sat in one of the chairs by the fire to think things over. Nothing but quiet and cold.

 

“Oh Billy,” Goodnight whispered, eyes wide, his whole body feeling like it was caving in on itself, breath starting to come alarmingly fast. He turned heel and ran outside.

 

He stumbled down the path to the cove and ran onto the beach, skidding to a stop over the pebbly shore and looking wildly out at the sea, scanning the calm water for anything, hopefully a seal… he vividly remembered the first time he’d spied its head in the water, a dark silvery grey that glimmered under the sun as it splashed through the water…

 

Now there was nothing but dark, even the moon above clouded over, turning the cove black. And Goodnight helplessly sunk to his knees in despair. He’d missed his chance. Billy was gone.

 

He took in a shuddering breath, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. When he pulled them back the cove was blurry and swimming.  Then something caught his eye. 

 

He hadn’t been able to see it properly when he was standing, but here, closer to the ground…yes. There had definitely been a ripple of light. A stray shell, perhaps, caught in a reflection by the meagre light coming from the moon?

 

He tilted his head, vision clearing up, squinting as he scanned the rocks around the cove, and yes, there was that sudden sheen again, a glint between the rocks. You wouldn’t be able to see them at the highest point in the tide, when the rocks were covered by water, but now, with the tide still coming slowly in, they were still visible.

 

Goodnight got to his feet and walked down the beach, balancing on the slippery rocks as he walked out into the cove. He reached the spot where he’d seen a reflection, and there, sure enough, caught in a hollow beneath a large rock, something was glinting.

 

Goodnight crouched down, taking a firm grip of the rock, and dragged it to the side with a scraping sound. He gazed down into the hollow and felt his heart begin to pound.

 

He knew that colour. That leathery silver sheen was one he’d seen dipping and darting through this cove like an arrow, fast and sleek. The hide had been folded up and placed in this indent in the rocks, motionless, and yet it still seemed to swim before Goodnight’s eyes. It fairly shone with some internal kind of life, almost weightless, thick as leather yet supple as silk. No ordinary animal could have this kind of skin. It practically pulsed with magic.

 

_ Can’t imagine why anyone would want it _ . Goodnight’s words came floating back to him, and he felt sick at the unthinkingness of his petty barb. God knew how many people would have killed, looted, plundered to get their hands on such a treasure, possibly already had. Goodnight’s retort had been thoughtlessly obtuse at best. But at worst…he knew now he was looking at a piece of Billy’s soul. And he was pierced by regret that he could ever have spoken so carelessly about something Billy held so close.

 

Goodnight sat back on his heels in a daze. He remembered innocently asking Billy all those months ago where his skin was if he was the selkie he claimed to be. Billy had closed the discussion with a snap. And all this time it had been right out in the cove, where they went every day, tucked away out of sight.

 

Goodnight was resolved. Every time he’d thought about wanting Billy to stay he couldn’t help likening himself to that oaf in the poem, taking what wasn’t his. But Goodnight knew in his heart of hearts that he wasn’t that kind of man. Seeing Billy’s skin now, the skin Billy guarded so carefully, Goodnight’s only instinct was to protect it.

 

He carefully dragged the rock back where it had been, using a nearby seashell to gently scrape the folds of the skin back into place, hiding it completely. He didn’t even want to touch it. Remembering the way Billy’s voice had shook when talking about people’s hands…he wouldn’t have touched the skin for all the money in the world.

 

He got to his feet feeling a rush of contentment and certainty wash over him. It was the calm a person felt when they looked deep within themselves and could discover they were still the person they thought they were.

 

And – he realized with a jolt of anticipation – if Billy’s skin was still here, it meant Billy was somewhere around here too. He walked back down the beach, climbing onto the dock and sat down. He would wait.

 

It didn’t take long. He had only been watching the tide come in for ten or so minutes when he heard a scrape behind him.

 

“Billy?” he asked, scrambling to his feet, and turning around. And there stood Billy, whole and human, standing on the dock before him. He was looking at Goodnight, face unreadable, hair wafting slightly in the cold night breeze, but the rest of him utterly still.

 

“Billy,” Goodnight breathed, like every solid dread and regret inside of him had up and floated through his pores, disappearing into the night. And without thinking about it he was stepping determinedly forward and throwing his arms around Billy in a tight, hard hug.

 

Billy froze and Goodnight just continued to hug him almost desperately, like he was trying to prove to himself that Billy was really there. He felt arms circle tentatively around his waist, like Billy wasn’t sure if it was happening, if he was allowed. And when Goodnight didn’t throw him off, it was like every muscle in Billy’s body seemed to  _ melt  _ as he folded his arms tight around Goodnight in a rush, pulling him in close, holding him hard enough to hurt, head buried in Goodnight’s neck, breathing him in.

 

“I’m sorry, Billy,” Goodnight said into Billy’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the cloth of Billy’s sweater. His own sweater, he realized with a pang.

 

Billy tightened his arms even more around Goodnight.

 

“Me too,” he practically whispered, and lifted a hand to cup Goodnight’s head.

 

They stood that way for a long time on the dock, arms wrapped around each other, swaying slightly under the sky. And when they finally slowly parted it was with a warm slide of arms, still staying close even as they stepped away.

 

Billy was looking down at the dock, his hands still brushing over Goodnight’s.

 

“Hi,” Goodnight offered with a tentative smile.

 

“Hi,” Billy said, a small smile in response, looking back up. He rubbed Goodnight’s wrists and Goodnight’s heart flared.

 

“That was a stupid thing I said earlier,” Goodnight said, shaking his head, a pang of regret washing over him anew.

 

“I said some stupid things to you too,” Billy said eyeing Goodnight hesitantly.

 

Goodnight just shook his head again and shrugged. “You had a better reason to.”

 

Billy bit his lip and shook his head, squeezing Goodnight’s hand. And then to Goodnight’s surprise he made as though to sit on the dock, tugging Goodnight’s hand gently for him to join.

 

They sat side by side looking out at the dark water, the horizon almost invisible against the night sky, but Billy’s hand a sure thing over Goodnight’s.

 

“I never meant...I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you,” Billy finally said quietly, the words seeming to struggle their way into the air. "I don't really know how to do...any of this."

 

“Billy, it’s okay –”

 

“No it’s not,” Billy said, hand tightening over Goodnight’s. He turned to look at him earnestly. “I never meant to…to string you along. I'm sorry I did. I just…”

 

 

Goodnight raised his eyebrows, but didn’t want to interrupt him again, just waited.

 

“I thought I’d gone too far,” Billy admitted, the barest pink tingeing his cheeks under the moonlight. “When I kissed you. I...I didn’t want to stop. But there are stories about selkies - male selkies -  who come ashore and try to seduce humans. Take advantage of them.  I didn’t want you to feel pressured by anything so...so I was waiting for you to say something about it first.”

 

A bubble of irony rose up through Goodnight, and he practically could have laughed out loud in disbelief. To think his own trepidations had been mirrored the whole time by Billy. He'd never heard stories about the human-selkie advantage going the other way: only the ones where humans were the possessive ones. And he'd been so caught up in his own dread that he'd been projecting his own insecurities about the situation onto Billy. And meanwhile Billy had been harbouring his own set of anxieties for the same reason. They might have been tangling themselves up in different knots, but it was all still the same net.

 

“Oh, Billy,” he said, letting out a quiet huff of laughter. “We’ve been a pair.”

 

Billy looked at him curiously and Goodnight cracked a smile.

 

“I’d read some story about a human stealing a selkie skin,” he said, waving his hand carelessly like the story hadn’t filled him with dread right down to his to his bones. “And I kept thinking that...it was what you were thinking I’d do and -”

 

“I didn’t mean that, Goody -” came Billy’s pained interruption.

 

“I just didn’t think it was my place,” Goodnight finished in a rush, not untruthfully. He hesitated. “To bring it up, that is. You seemed to want to forget it, and...I didn’t want you to think the same thing would happen to you again…”

 

Billy was looking at him uncomprehendingly.

 

“Again?”

 

“With someone on land,” Goodnight said awkwardly, not sure how to broach the subject Billy had spat out at him earlier, “With your skin. I...I just assumed.”

 

“Oh,” Billy said, forehead smoothing out somewhat, but a troubled expression quickly taking over his face. “It wasn’t...like that. It was a couple of travellers who found it. Back where I’m from. I was...careless, and they realized what I was. They caught me for my skin. A keepsake. But it wasn’t me they wanted.”

 

Billy let out a long breath while Goodnight stared at him.

 

“They took it back with them across the ocean. And it took a long time to track it down again, over ocean and land. It changed hands a lot, people selling it. A curiosity.”

 

“Billy…” Goodnight couldn’t help breathing, heart clenching in sympathy. Billy just bit his lip and shook his head.

 

“I could hear my skin calling, that’s how I knew where to find it. But it wasn’t easy getting there. The only thing that kept me going was thinking how good it would feel to kill the person who had it once I got it back, see how they felt when someone took a part of them. But when I finally saw the last person it had ended up with…well they really had no idea what it was, what it meant. So I just scared them instead, and took back my skin. I wanted to put it on right then and there, but I was still in the desert. So I went back to the sea, and…you know the rest. Stayed there until I met you.”

 

Goodnight’s mind was reeling, partly that Billy had shared this with him, and partly in sympathy for what sounded like a journey with little warmth to be had it in.

 

“I’m sorry,” Goodnight said in a low voice.

 

Billy shook his head.

 

“It was a long time ago. Another life.”

 

Goodnight squeezed Billy’s hand hard, letting him know he was there as they sat on the dock a while longer in silence.

 

“But no one…no one was forcing you to stay on land?” Goodnight finally asked quietly, because he had to be sure. “No one was making you stay with them?”

 

Billy looked at him in surprise, and then awareness dawned on his face, like he suddenly understood,  _ really  _ understood what lay at the centre of all Goodnight’s hesitations. A soft smile spread across his lips and he reached out to trace Goodnight’s face, making Goodnight shiver where he sat.

 

“No,” he said. “Nothing like that.”

 

Goodnight hesitated, not sure how much he should say, and he leaned in closer to Billy.

 

“Billy…you have to know…I’d never take your skin.” He looked imploringly at Billy, knowing it to be true in his bones, and willing Billy to believe it too. “I would never do that.”

 

To his mild surprise, the small smile on Billy’s face spread into an expression that was nothing but warmth.

 

“I know,” he said, his face lit by some deep glow of certainty that fairly stole Goodnight’s breath. “I know.”

They continued to sit on the dock in silence, still pressed close. Every time a coarse cloud cleared over the moon, the water around them glimmered with silver ribbons lining the dark cloak of the ocean, before the next cloud took over again.

 

“I thought you’d left,” Goodnight admitted after a while, voice hoarse, heart picking up at the mere memory of coming home to the empty house.

 

Billy pulled back and tilted his head as he regarded Goodnight, eyes searching.

 

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked.

 

Goodnight opened his mouth, still unsure, even now, as to whether it was something he was even allowed to ask at all. But he looked at Billy’s face and decided to trust what he saw there.

 

“I do want you to stay,” he confessed. “But I can’t ask that of you.”

 

The small smile on Billy’s face turned up more in understanding, and he lifted his hands again to cup Goodnight’s face.

 

“Ask me,” he said quietly. And his voice was soft but it might as well have been a command for helpless Goodnight was to resist it. That smile was still rippling over the line of Billy’s mouth, pulling up all of Goodnight’s hopes too in one breathless, heart-pounding ascent. 

 

“Would you stay with me?” Goodnight whispered, gazing into Billy’s dark eyes which melted into an expression of pure light and relief. And Goodnight realized that the one thing he felt he couldn’t ask of Billy was the one thing Billy had been waiting and hoping to hear from him all along.

 

Billy nodded, and his smile soft over his lips.

 

“Yes,” he said simply.

 

Goodnight could scarcely breathe. He gazed at Billy who ran his thumb across Goodnight’s cheek.

 

“I think,” Goodnight murmured, looking down to Billy’s lips, then back up at his eyes. “We’ve both been thinking too much about other people’s stories. Not ours.”

 

A smile curved at the corner of Billy’s mouth, his eyes still shining, and he leaned in. Goodnight parted his lips, and then Billy was there, brushing and then sealing their lips together, and it was like all of Goodnight let out a breath in one rolling, cresting  swell.

 

It was different from how Billy had kissed Goodnight that night after dancing, spontaneous and desperate. Intent now curved his lips, each press of them against Goodnight’s deliberate, searching, tasting him, learning him in his own time, sweet and soft.

 

Billy pulled back eventually, the air cool over Goodnight’s lips. Goodnight’s eyes cracked open to take in Billy, eyes closed, contented, letting out a hum, smile still lingering on his lips.

 

“Been wanting to do that again,” Billy said with a huff of sheepish laughter, cheeks coloured like he was imparting some secret, his hands trailing down Goodnight’s neck.

 

“Were you?” Goodnight murmured, head spinning, heart pounding. To think he’d wondered before if there was any love left in him, if that was what he felt for Billy, when it was the only thing coursing through his veins right now, the only thing rushing to his heart. He felt like he was in a dream and waking up at the same time.

 

Billy nodded, hair tickling Goodnight’s forehead. He opened his eyes to take in Goodnight properly.

 

“I wanted to do that the whole time,” he said. “Ever since I met you I’ve wanted to do that.”

 

His eyes were almost pained as he looked at Goodnight, fingers faltering in their path over Goodnight’s neck. And then the smile slipped from his face as he moved in determinedly, catching Goodnight’s lips again, and kissing him hard.

 

Goodnight shuddered and wrapped his arms around Billy, tilting his head and letting his lips part for Billy who immediately did the same, deepening the kiss. He slid a hand into Goodnight’s hair, finger tracing the shell of Goodnight’s ear, sending a shock of electricity straight to Goodnight’s knees. His tongue slid slick and warm against Goodnight who couldn’t help his moan as he pulled Billy closer.

 

They kissed hard, urgency growing with every press of their lips. Billy caught Goodnight’s lower lip between his teeth and released it, only to surge in again to seal their mouths together again, Goodnight fairly panting against him.

 

Billy broke off, pulling Goodnight’s face to his so he could kiss Goodnight’s cheek, his jaw, his neck…

 

Goodnight’s let out a shaky breath, something rising in his chest that was almost like a sob. His eyes fluttered shut, fingers tightening in Billy’s shirt.

 

“Inside,” he breathed into Billy’s shoulder. Billy turned his head into a kiss on Goodnight’s neck, teeth gently catching the skin.

 

“Yes.”

 

They made it back to the house, up the stairs, and into the dark bedroom. Through the closed window came the distant, muffled crash of waves floating through. Neither noticed, so completely absorbed in kissing each other now that they knew they could, hands grasping at each other’s clothes, mouths moving urgently together all the while. Goodnight’s legs hit the bed and he sat down, Billy pushing him down the rest of the way until he was lying flat on his back. Billy slid on top, pushing off Goodnight’s shirt and dropping intent, deliberate kisses to every revealed patch of skin. 

 

He took his time, seeming to almost marvel over Goodnight’s warm skin. His hands smoothed curiously over each patch of skin, brushing over his chest, hands running down Goodnight’s sides, stroking gently down his thighs. Billy bent down and pressed a light kiss to every area his hands had already explored, mouth soft and drawing goosebumps to the top of Goodnight’s flesh with each press of his warm lips.  Goodnight could only lay there and take in gasping breaths with his hands stroking through Billy’s hair, his gut was tingling with want that pooled slowly into a steady, pulsing heat.

 

When Goodnight was fully bared, Billy leaned back to pull off his own shirt, letting it drop to the floor. Goodnight leaned up on his elbows, chest rising and falling shallowly as he looked up at Billy.  

 

Billy gazed down at him a long time, eyes cataloguing Goodnight, possessive but soft. Goodnight reached out to splay a hand across the dips of Billy’s stomach. Billy smiled as he pulled Goodnight’s hand up towards his mouth, closing his eyes and kissing Goodnight’s fingers, then the inside of his wrist, a tender gesture that made Goodnight’s knees go weak. Goodnight reached forward, fumbling with the buckle of Billy’s pants. Billy let go to help him, pushing them down the rest of the way, and. Goodnight let out a sigh as he reached out to feel him.

 

Billy shuddered and pushed Goodnight’s shoulders back down until he was lying on the mattress again, Billy slipping over top. Goodnight mind was wiped blissfully blank by the first sensation of being together head to toe, nothing between them but skin to warm skin. Their hips started to rock slowly together, their lips finding each other again, and nothing had ever been more natural or good than the slow slide of their skin together, hands stroking over each other, lips tingling where they met.

 

They kissed and kissed until their lips were rubbed red. Goodnight could feel moisture from Billy leaking steadily against his hipbone and Goodnight let out a full body shudder, reaching for Billy’s length and working his hand slowly over the wetness, bringing his hand back up to join with Billy’s, and guiding him to where he wanted him most.

 

Billy took his time exploring him, so slow and searching that Goodnight could barely stand it, in blissful agony as Billy’s fingers reached for his pleasure, learning where to make Goodnight arch his back, where to have him curl his toes into the mattress, where to make Goodnight bite his fist, eyes squeezed shut, almost unable to take the pure press of pleasure.

 

And then finally he felt a different blunt pressure against him and he sucked in a breath, Billy’s hand rubbing his stomach. Goodnight let his breath out and Billy started to slowly slide into him, inch by inch, letting out a shuddering breath of his own, mouth falling open, eyes dazed.

 

Goodnight felt dizzy, overwhelmed by the stretch. It stung a little but he trailed shaking fingers over Billy’s thighs, arching his hips to take in more, head falling back against the mattress. Billy gasped and dropped his forehead to the crook of Goodnight’s neck, and began to move.

 

It was slow, hesitant, but all the more tender for it, Goodnight cradling the back of Billy’s head, holding him close as he adjusted to this newness and they searched for a rhythm. And gradually it was like the sensation began to melt into a liquid heat that spread through Goodnight, sending sparks running through his body. It felt good, so good, both too much and not enough at the same time, and despite the intensity, nothing had ever felt easier.

 

Goodnight weakly nuzzled Billy’s face with his own, almost unable to bear how close they were, bodies joined together, the heaviness inside Goodnight reminding him they couldn’t be closer with every slide. Billy let out a shaky sound as he kissed whatever part of Goodnight’s face he could. He seemed overwhelmed, hips speeding up, hands running over Goodnight desperately like they couldn’t choose a place to settle. Goodnight tipped his face up and Billy caught his lips, and they kissed so hard, so deeply, that Goodnight was sure his chest was going to crack open.

 

Billy’s breathing was ragged and he snaked a hand beneath Goodnight’s thigh, lifting it to sink into Goodnight deeper, harder. He had a flush spreading across his chest, and Goodnight reached up to smooth it with his hands, pulling Billy back towards him, whispering broken encouragements to Billy who gasped and began to buck faster, overwhelmed.

 

There was a steady thrumming pulsing its way through Goodnight’s body, coming and going in waves, surging and ebbing, getting closer and closer to the shore each time, flooding Goodnight with pleasure. His head turned blindly towards the dark window, the sound of the tide somewhere off in the distance, or maybe it was just the pulse in his ears.

 

And then Billy groaned and arched his back, his whole body curving over Goodnight like a wave. And Goodnight just pulled him close, tipped his head back, and let himself be pulled under.

 

 

*

 

 

 

“Are you going to miss it?” Goodnight asked later in the dark. Billy’s arms were around him, hands running curiously over Goodnight’s skin like he could keep the feeling of it in his palm like water.

 

Billy turned to look at Goodnight, thumb stroking his shoulder.

 

“Yes,” he said simply.

 

Goodnight nodded, a lump in his throat, but before it could overwhelm him Billy nudged up his chin with gentle fingers, pressing a kiss to his lips and pulling back, eyes calm.

 

“But I’d miss you more.”

 

Goodnight swallowed and leaned forward, resting his head against Billy’s, closing his eyes.

 

“It’s funny,” Billy said after a while, lips tickling Goodnight’s ear. “Part of me will always feel like a seal, but...I’d spent so long as a seal I’d forgotten that part of me will always be human too.”

 

Billy paused, and added more quietly:

 

“I’d forgotten how much I’d missed hearing another human voice until you showed up.”

 

Goodnight felt something in him loosen, and he cracked his eyes open and nuzzled Billy’s head once with his own, both of their hair still slightly damp. Billy’s words had taken quiet flight through him, fluttering like a bird, wings beating against his chest.

 

“Must get pretty quiet in there,” was all he could think of to say, closing his eyes again, starting to get drowsy. 

 

“No,” came Billy’s voice thoughtfully. “No not quiet.”

 

His hand stilled as he considered it, fingers resting lightly over Goodnight’s shoulders.

 

“There’s always something moving,” Billy said after a moment. “It’s never still.”

 

His hands continued their smooth strokes down Goodnight’s back, fingers dancing idly when they reached his lower back, tracing grooves in the skin there, then gliding back up.

 

“The fish are the noisiest,” he said with a smile in his voice. “Their scales sound like crystal against the water. Every time they turn the sound rings out. When a school of them turn together it sounds like a mountain of glass breaking.”

 

Goodnight lay still, head on Billy’s chest, listening to the vibrations of Billy’s voice.

 

“Seabirds too,” Billy said. “They’ll plunge down and it’s like they’re tearing through the sea, the water around them ripping in two. And when they float on the water their feet never stop kicking. It’s like drums, over and over, coming from the surface and beating all the way down to the sand.”

 

"The cliffs are full of tunnels and caves, and when the water pours through them it echoes. It’s like a constant drone if you listen carefully. And back outside the caves the waves are always crashing against the rocks. When they pull back you can hear everything happening on them: crabs tapping their claws against the rock, seals rolling and barking at each other, the splinter of sea urchins when the eels take them in their jaws. And then the next wave rolls in, and drowns everyone out again.”

 

His voice had gone smooth, almost dreamy, like light piercing through the water.

 

“Then you get further away from the shore. There’s less chaos, it’s more quiet, but the sound gets deeper.”

 

Goodnight was holding himself still, transfixed by Billy’s voice.

 

“The kelp forests are huge. You can’t imagine how huge they are. They plant themselves in the sand and push up as high towards the light as they can go. And when they move with the waves it’s like trees. A whole forest groaning in the wind.

 

“The fish get bigger too…mackerel and salmon, carp and char…they’re fast but loud. When they turn fast in the water their bodies break up their wake like a shot. Swordfish most of all. They travel alone, and when you hear one coming up behind you it’s like they drown out everything around them when they rush past.

 

“And then there are the whales. When they move past everything else seems to slow down, almost stop. And then you can hear them.”

 

Billy’s voice had slipped into a trance, like the very call of the sea itself.

 

“One starts it. Just one note in the deep, held steady, and it travels for miles. And then one adds on. Sometimes the same note, sometimes a new one, but it always matches. You can hear the notes weave together, and everything around you goes still.

 

“And they sing the same song, did you know that? Whales from the same ocean. It changes over the years, evolves with new notes, but the whales always hear it, always know it. It doesn’t matter how far they travel. They could be miles apart but all singing the same song to each other. The sounds overlap, like ribbons through the ocean, always pulling. And if you listen carefully, you can even hear the shores on both sides of the ocean. They remember how they used to be joined. And then...the shores stretch to reach each other too.”

 

Billy fell quiet. His hand stilled for a moment on Goodnight’s back, and Goodnight hardly let himself breathe. But then he resumed his slow strokes, hand running over Goodnight’s skin. 

 

“It sounds beautiful,” Goodnight finally said, a lump he couldn’t identify in his throat.

 

“It is,” Billy said, voice far away. And then he let out a breath.

 

“Gets kind of lonely though.”

 

He’d said it so quietly, almost distantly. And yet there was something resolved about the declaration, some decision in there too.

 

Goodnight lifted his head to look at Billy, and Billy gazed back, and his eyes were dark but not fathomless. They were alive with movement that could only come from a real and resolute shore behind them, steadfast and steady sand, his feet planted firm.

 

And Goodnight leaned up and over Billy, bending his head to kiss him, the lump in his throat trickling away as Billy kissed him back. Billy pulled him closer, as though taking Goodnight’s warmth for himself. And with the way Goodnight was steadily melting, letting him have it was easy.

 

 

*

 

 

Goodnight woke from a deep, dreamless sleep, like a hook slipping beneath his skin and pulling upwards from the bottom of the ocean. It took him a few minutes to let the sound of the house around him, the creak of the walls, and the wind against the thick glass windowpanes remind him where he was.

 

The night before had felt so fantastical, so out-of-this-world, he wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t dreamed it. Billy’s voice had been so ethereal, so unearthly when it had wrapped around Goodnight and pulled him beneath the waves with him. He’d sounded like a part of the water itself, whether he was in it or not.

 

He was alone in the bed but the mattress was still warm where Billy had slept, and Goodnight rolled into it, breathing in. The scent of Billy’s skin still lingered in the fabric, the smell of the sheets still carried a trace of sex, and if Goodnight moved his head he could make out the scent of Billy’s hair on the pillow, all of it filling Goodnight’s senses.

 

There was a faint clattering from downstairs, and Goodnight smiled to himself in Billy’s pillow, letting the sound float around him, better than any music. Finally he managed to rouse himself, pulling on a loose pair of pyjama bottoms with a yawn. There was no need to hurry.

 

He made his way downstairs, the bare skin of his chest delighting in the cool whisper of air over it. He reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped.

 

It was a sight he’d seen before: Billy at the counter, making coffee, and completely naked. Goodnight felt a pull of lust for the memory of that body against and inside of him. But most of all his heart soared at the sight of Billy here in his house, alive, visceral, human, and wholeheartedly here to stay.

 

“Hi,” Goodnight said casually, even though there was a quiet thrum of happiness tingling through him.

 

Billy couldn’t turn around as he was currently pouring out hot coffee, but his body shifted towards Goodnight.

 

“Hi.”

 

There was a stretch of silence while Billy stirred the coffee.

 

“You know, I’m having a bit of déjà vu here,” Goodnight said.

 

“Oh?” Billy asked, turning around.

 

Goodnight gestured. “You, naked in my kitchen. Feels like how we met.”

 

Billy glanced down at himself and then back at Goodnight.

 

“Did you want me to put on clothes again?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

His face was mild but there was a shadow of amusement lingering over his mouth, and Goodnight felt a tingle of happiness  ripple over him as he bit back a grin and shook his head.

 

“No.”

 

Billy’s eyes sparkled and he put the coffee down, walking towards Goodnight, and kissed him purposefully. Both were smiling and their teeth clacked together. And then suddenly Billy was hoisting Goodnight up, arms under his thighs. Goodnight let out a huff of laughter between their lips, and he wrapped his legs around Billy’s waist, still kissing him. And Billy carried him back towards the steps where they went upstairs, the coffee forgotten.

 

 

*

 

 

The next few days felt surreal, like someone had pulled back a veil on Goodnight’s life and shown him his world in clear, vivid, technicolour existence. It was like putting on glasses and everything around you standing out it sharp, pulsing clarity, even the most mundane objects shining with light.

 

They’d been sharing the bed ever since the first time Billy had been in it, and Goodnight didn’t think he’d ever known happiness like the kind that came with waking up with Billy’s arm thrown over his chest, his forehead brushing Goodnight’s shoulder, hair streaming out on the pillow next to Goodnight. For someone who was often up before Goodnight, he slept deeply, and whenever Goodnight woke up first he would just lie there in Billy’s arms and gaze at him, scarcely able to believe his luck.

 

Every day he watched for signs that Billy regretted his decision. But there were none. And more and more Goodnight stopped watching, and more and more he started seeing. Seeing the purposefulness in Billy’s step when he head outside every morning. Seeing the easy slope of his shoulders and laughter when he was among the fishermen, not a stone against the stream, but a leaf moving with it. Seeing his delight in the world around him, the air pulling goosebumps from his smooth skin, and the sun hitting his face directly, not having to push through layers of water to feel it. And mostly seeing his smile when he woke up and saw Goodnight, and the warmth in his hands and voice when he pulled him in close.

 

Goodnight returned the library book with the poem in it.

 

For the first time since the war Goodnight felt like he could see the rest of his life. He didn’t know if it would be spent here. This was a small house, in a small town, and he could see how much energy brimmed in Billy, how much desire there was to branch out, explore, taste, see, feel, after so much time spent under the waves. It made Goodnight’s skin tingle too, the whisper of the world calling to him, and instead of shrinking from its touch, his heart pulsed back in response.

 

But this could be a place to come back to. A place where they’d both put down roots, Goodnight's not quite as deep, but holding strong in the soil. Maybe they’d go away for years, maybe they’d come back every summer, maybe they’d stay out a year at a time, watching the downs shift from dry gold, to chilled wetness, to dustings of colour, to sweeping green. But no matter what they did, where they went, they both had choices. More than either had had in a long time.

 

Goodnight awoke one morning to a pink glow in the sky and an extra blanket on top of him. The days weren’t so terribly cold yet, once the sun was at its highest point, however many clouds covered it here by the sea. But in the mornings when they first woke up, there had been a noticeable chill. Billy didn’t feel it himself too much, but Goodnight did, and he must have dug out another blanket from the closet for him.

 

Billy was already up, and out and about somewhere, which wasn’t unusual. He was often up with even just the barest thought of the sun, heading out for a walk to see the world wake up, and back in bed before Goodnight had even stirred. It  _ was _ , however, unusual for Goodnight to be up at this hour. But as long as he was awake, he might as well get up too.

 

Goodnight got dressed, threw on a thicker sweater than usual, and went downstairs. Billy was out but he’d left a pot of water on a low heat on the stove, and a mug that already had a teabag in it. Goodnight’s smile was something deeper than contentment as he walked over and fixed himself a cup of tea.

 

He brought it outside, clutching the steaming mug closer to him, steam spiralling out of the cup like a chimney and swirling into the sky. The path leading the cove was tinged with the early pink and grey of dawn, and he walked down the hill toward the dock.

 

Billy was already there, sitting with his own cup and a bundle beside him. He glanced behind him when he saw Goodnight, smiled in greeting, and removed a blanket from the bundle, handing it to Goodnight. Goodnight accepted it gratefully and sat down beside Billy, their shoulders touching.

 

“You’re up early,” Billy commented.

 

“Your industriousness is rubbing off on me,” Goodnight said. “I suppose you’ve already been to London and back by now?”

 

“Turned back halfway,” Billy said with a grin. “Forgot my drink.”

 

He held up his mug and Goodnight snorted and tapped it with his own, taking a sip of the sweet, scalding tea. They sat there on the dock in a calm, happy silence, the quiet only occasionally punctuated by lap of the tide as it slowly pulled out.

 

“It was here that I saw you for the first time,” Billy said suddenly, and Goodnight glanced over in surprise.

 

“You were standing on this dock,” Billy said. “I didn’t know who you were, just that I wanted to see you again. And then you spoke to me and…it just made me want to come back more.”

 

He glanced over at Goodnight with a laugh in his eyes.

 

“Never seen anyone talk so much to a seal before.”

 

“Well,” Goodnight said with a smile that was only slightly caught out. “You were a pretty smart seal.”

 

Billy huffed out a laugh, and looked down into the water where his legs dangled off the dock. He flexed them and smiled, looking back up, reaching for something beside him.

 

“I wanted you to have this.”

 

He handed Goodnight the other part of the bundle, and Goodnight’s hands froze when he realized what he was touching. He looked up at Billy in shock, but Billy’s face was steady and warm as the sun itself as it slowly filtered out along the horizon.

 

“Billy…”

 

“I know you already know where it was,” Billy said simply and Goodnight startled in surprise. “I saw you. That night you found it I was up on the downs looking at the sea. Trying to make up my mind.”

 

He looked down at the skin, lips pulling in remembrance.

 

“I saw you find it. And I watched. Part of me wanted to go down and grab it, but part of me wanted you to just take it and make up my mind for me.”

 

He let out an unpleasant, rueful huff of laughter, either at his own cowardice, or his lack of faith in Goodnight, and Goodnight felt his throat clench too. But then Billy lifted his head and his face had smoothed out, lit with something akin to affirmation when he looked back at Goodnight.

 

“But I saw you put it back,” he said, voice as warm as Goodnight had ever heard it, his eyes bright. “And funny thing was, you did make up my mind for me. Once I saw you do that I knew I wanted to stay.”

 

Goodnight cleared his throat and looked down, still in disbelief as to what was in his hands.

 

“I can’t take this,” Goodnight started helplessly, but Billy’s hands closed over his own.

 

“It’s mine to do what I want with,” he said firmly. “And I want it to be yours.”

 

Goodnight looked down at the folded skin in his hands, filling them with a low, magnetic buzz. His palms tingled as he flexed his fingers, and the skin shifted in his hands. It was thick but it moved more like a liquid than anything else, supple and spellbinding. It had shone silver in the moonlight the first time Goodnight had laid eyes on it, but here in his hands, it was like holding a sliver of the morning sky: grey, deep dappled blue, and the faintest brushing of golden light.

 

He looked at it for a long time, not unaware of how much it meant even just for Billy to hand it to him to hold, let alone promise it to him. Billy had decided to give him a piece of his soul. And however unworthy Goodnight felt of it, it would be even more unworthy of him to blindly reject what Billy was offering.

 

He looked up at Billy who was watching him with a small smile that curved its way straight into Goodnight’s chest. He already had the man. Maybe it was no more or less significant to have his skin as a seal, than it was to hold his skin as a human when he fell asleep at night in their house.

 

But even so…

 

“Do you know what I want to do with it?” Goodnight asked, voice rather hoarse. Billy shook his head.

 

“I want to put it back where it was,” Goodnight said looking up at Billy. “I want to put it back in the cove. Back where I found it.”

 

Billy was looking at Goodnight uncertainly but Goodnight just smiled.

 

“You said you saw me for the first time here. Well the first time I saw you was out there. In the water.”

 

He reached out to cup Billy’s face, taking in the smoothness of it in his hand.

 

“You can move it again later, you can leave it there, you can visit it every night, or never look at it again, whatever you want, it’ll still be there for you if you need it,” he said. “But it belongs out there.”

 

He rubbed his thumb along Billy’s cheek, feeling the soft skin, and smiled.

 

“This belongs with me.”

 

Billy’s eyes widened, first in surprise, then in a feeling that Goodnight couldn’t have put a name to if he tried. He swallowed and nodded, looking quickly down, but Goodnight drew his chin up gently and leaned in and kissed him gently, long and with conviction.

 

When they pulled back their hands had tangled together in the skin. Goodnight stroked it one last time and then gently handed it back to Billy, who took it back, and as adamant and trusting as he’d been when passing it to Goodnight, his face was still coloured through with gratitude when he took it back.

 

He handled the skin with fond, familiar fingers, suddenly looking thoughtful.

 

“You haven’t actually seen it, have you?” he asked. “Not properly.”

 

Billy looked out at the sea and then looked up at Goodnight, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

 

“Do you want to?”

 

Goodnight nodded but wasn’t really sure what Billy was getting at. Did he mean the skin unfolded? It was true he’d only seen it for a minute that time...

 

Billy stood up, shaking out the skin which unrolled like a silver curtain, settling with a heavy thump as it rolled out. It swung heavily where Billy held it, and yet Goodnight could almost see the glow of the rising sun shine through it. He was so transfixed by the contrast he almost didn’t notice that Billy was slipping out of his shoes.

 

“Wait,” Goodnight said in alarm, ice forming in the pit of his stomach. He reached out to clutch Billy’s arm. Billy glanced at him in surprise.

 

“It’s just,” Goodnight said rattled, “You said to change back you can only do it if someone…someone cries seven tears on you, or…or touches you with steel…”

 

His voice trailed off in worry, but then confusion as he remembered that Billy  _ had  _ changed that night in the storm without either of those things happening. He’d changed from seal to human, and had seemed just as confused by it as Goodnight.

 

But now Billy just smiled.

 

“Trust me.”

 

Goodnight pulled his hand away from Billy’s arm and watched in some trepidation as Billy took off the rest of his clothes. He did trust Billy, but still…

 

Naked except for the skin slung over his arm, Billy eased himself off the dock and into the water. It was practically winter, the water had to be below zero, and yet Billy didn’t even flinch as he waded out to his waist and kept going.

 

He stopped when the water was at his chest, and Goodnight saw him pull the skin around his shoulders, almost like a cloak. Goodnight couldn’t tell if water was covering Billy, or if it was the actual figure of Billy that was swimming and shimmering in the air like that. But he shone and wavered in the early morning light, enveloped by silver and gold, and suddenly there was a pool of rings spreading through the water where Billy had just been standing.

 

Goodnight scrambled forward onto the dock, eyes fixed on the place where Billy had disappeared. He was so focused he didn’t see the shadow in the water at first, but then his eyes fell on a streak of grey and his heart lifted. It spun in a whirling ring around the cove, diving and skimming through the water, spinning in joyful loops, flinging out golden droplets that splashed up as the sun crept over the bay.

 

The seal arched its body in a fluid motion and then swam straight down the middle of the bay back to Goodnight. Goodnight leaned forward as it grew closer and closer to the dock. And with a neat flick of its tail and fins it pulled to a stop and was arching its long neck out of the water and looking up at Goodnight.

 

They stared at each other as the sun rose the rest of the way, water pouring down the seal’s body in warm, gilded rivulets. Goodnight looked into those dark, alert, eyes, so rich with life and feeling, more soul in those dark orbs than the whole ocean combined, and wondered how could have ever thought this was just a seal.

 

“I remember you,” he said with a smile, and the seal’s whiskers twitched in response.

 

Goodnight felt a flood of gratitude rush through him. It was Billy who’d chosen to stay with him, Billy that would be standing with Goodnight at the end of this. But Goodnight was still looking out at one of the first friends he’d made here, the first figure that had made any of this place feel familiar, the one who’d saved him in more ways than just the one.

 

Goodnight reached out and the seal swam closer. He’d almost touched it one time, had felt its breath on his fingers, the closest they’d come before Goodnight had pulled his hand back, wiping away tears that had been springing out of the lowest, most cracked place in his grief.

 

Now he smiled, turned his hand out, and the seal leaned forward and rested its muzzle in the palm of Goodnight’s hand.

 

They stayed like that for a minute, Goodnight’s outstretched hand, the seal leaning up to meet him, short, wet, bristly hairs scratching his palm, long whiskers quivering in the air, dappled body arched in the water as it lay its head in Goodnight’s hand. Goodnight thumbed the soft fur once, committing it to memory.

 

_ Thank you,  _ Goodnight sent to it, and the seal nuzzled his palm.

 

And then with a final flick of its fins it sunk back in the water, Goodnight watching it turn away. It made one last wide circle of the bay, rippling through the waves in a silver flash, and when it reached the mouth of the cove it turned back in the direction of the rocks, sinking down deeper and disappearing from view.

 

It stayed under for a long time and Goodnight counted the seconds in how wide the patch of golden sunrise rippled on the place where it had disappeared.

 

And then another shape in the water appeared, larger, paler against the dark green waters as it swam towards the dock in an easy stroke, dark head breaking through the surface, and Goodnight let out a breath and felt his heart settle.

 

Billy pulled himself up onto the dock, Goodnight helping him the rest of the way until they were kneeling in front of each other. Goodnight wrapped the blanket around Billy’s chilled shoulders, reaching out to smooth the dark strands of damp hair out of Billy’s face.

 

Billy was shivering the tiniest bit, but his eyes were bright, the colour high in his cheeks as he gazed at Goodnight as though by simply being there Goodnight had somehow granted his greatest wish.

 

“There’s another way a selkie can change into a person,” Billy said, catching his breath, water streaming down his skin. “Besides tears or steel.”

 

“How?” Goodnight asked.

 

“A selkie can only change if someone cries seven tears, pierces their skin with steel, or…” Billy smiled. “If the selkie loves a human.”

 

Goodnight stared at Billy in disbelief. So even back then…

 

“I didn’t realize it after I changed,” Billy said, water dripping off his lashes, bone-white skin slowly returning to normal. “Not at first. But that’s how I was able to turn that time I saved you.”

 

He shrugged, his smile an open, guileless thing.

 

“I guess the seal part of me figured it out sooner than I did.”

 

Goodnight swallowed and smoothed down Billy’s hair, the water rippling gold around them.

 

“Well,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Like I said...one smart seal.”

 

Billy’s smile turned into a full-on grin, and Goodnight chuckled. He leaned forward and so did Billy, and Goodnight kissed him there on the dock, the tide slowly pulling away, the sun coming up around them.

 

Goodnight pulled back and thumbed Billy’s cheek one last time, those dark eyes staring softly back at him.

 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

 

They got to their feet, gathered up their things, and walked side-by-side back down the dock. They walked up the path and reached the little house, Goodnight holding the door open for Billy, and Billy stepping through unhesitatingly. Goodnight took one look back at the ocean, eyes sweeping over its vast stretch. 

 

He tried to listen to it, as Billy had said, from the soft, shallow licking of the tide on the sand, to the whitecaps breaking further out. He closed his eyes, and for just a second he could hear beyond just waves: to the deep, fathomless rolling beneath that pushed the waves up to the surface where they rolled towards the shore, bringing a different part of the ocean with them every time.

 

And then he heard Billy calling him from inside the house, and he opened his eyes, turned away with a smile, and closed the door behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**The End.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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